The Unfinished Tale of the Child of Terpsichore
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: The part of Erik's tale that Leroux never knew... Rated for future violence and sexuality. Co-written with Tiffany.
1. The Prologue

The Unfinished Tale of the Child of Terpsichore

As discovered and told by the Weaver of the Tangled Web.

_This is not an easy tale for me to share with the world. Upon having found this, the Opera Ghost's memoirs, and upon discovering exactly what the world had missed out upon for so many years, it took a great deal of courage to sit and begin to write about such a thing. I will never know how I found it; perhaps the soul of Erik himself brought my wandering feet to it. Perhaps the mind, or lack thereof, of my psychotic mother, while dragging me around so many towns in Europe as a child, was somehow still keen enough to recognize the purpose within me, and lead me to the place where one night would forever decide my future. I will never know how his memoirs found their way into my hands, or why, and neither will I ever know why I can feel him in my soul, can feel his story pouring from every crack and crevice of my mind, begging to be released into the world. I will never know why this tale speaks to me so powerfully, and moves me to such tears upon the briefest of reminders of its existence. Perhaps I was there, in that age; perhaps I am their offspring, or their reincarnation, or merely their storyteller—chosen from the thousands to be the one to shed light upon what the world has always taken as a great tragedy._

_For, in truth, the tale of the Opera Ghost was not a tragedy. It was a long and tragic tale, but its ending was not tragic. Its ending was the most beautiful ending a story could ever have. Its ending is, in a word, immaculate—for truly, there is no ending. The lives of Erik and Christine Daaé ended, but their souls lived on, entwined together through eternity as no souls have ever been entwined before. And while their mortal bodies sleep eternally, dreaming of a time when warm arms embraced them, their souls live together in the now, in the today, so interlaced as to be one soul, one dream, one life. _

_Their story lives on; but now, I will tell you how it almost died, and how it was resuscitated from the depths of sorrow and despair, and sent soaring on angel's wings once more—**pun intended**. _

_The sections you will find before each chapter, unless marked by " A/N ", are excerpts from Erik's memoirs. To aid in avoiding confusion, I will also be including his signature farewell, "O.G.", after each excerpt. They are not, in any way, shape, or form, the entirety of his memoirs. They are merely small pieces of them, to give further insight into the works ahead. They will also be discernable by the fact that they are written in first person._

_I do hope that you are able to enjoy this tale as much as have I, though it pains me to think of the trials and tribulations that the angels fought their way through, merely to be with one another. However, all their pain and misfortune was worth it, in the end, and Erik always knew it was. Always, he could forgive his angel—always, he could see the right in every wrong she made—always, he could forget that she'd caused him pain, no matter how little he could forget the pain itself. So many could never find the reason behind his actions; so many could not understand why he would forgive her. Erik did not need reasons, however._

_He loved her, and that was enough._


	2. The End of the Beginning

The End of the Beginning

_It was cruel of me, I suppose, to return to the Persian and instruct him so carefully in what he must do, upon receiving the box of Christine's effects. I played the part of the love-struck, star-eyed puppy well, though; within only a few days of shipping her things to him, the damning sentence was in the 'Epoque':_

"_Erik is dead." _

_He had not given me as much time as I had expected; I had not a moment to spare, dressing and posing the corpse of a stagehand beside the little well where first my angel was clutched in my arms. I knew that, should Christine choose to fulfill her promise to me, it would take her a substantial amount of time to reach the Opéra Populaire, and that the corpse would be decomposed enough to be nearly unrecognizable by then. I left a mask, a second one I had fashioned specifically for this purpose, pressed against his face. The skin, I burned, just before placing the mask against the man's right half; even if Christine had desired to remove the mask, which I was sure she would not, the skin would come off with it, and leave her with no decisive conclusions as to whether the corpse had belonged to her Erik or not._

_I waited for some time after that, lingering in the shadows of shadows, watching from the deepest of the deep corners, listening from the smallest of the small hideaways. She would come. I held it close to my heart that she would come. She had promised to bury my body, she had promised to ensure I was not left to rot in the open. It was with all my strength that I hung to this belief, for what else could I do? Allow myself to tumble into the pits of despair, and wallow within it like a pig in the muck? _

_Time passed slowly, in that period of waiting. My things had all been neatly packed away into trunks and locked securely; I wished nothing removed. To her own eyes, it would appear that I merely wanted my things left in that which had been my home, and my prison, and my final destruction. On the less romantic, but more honest, side of things, I wished them untouched because I intended to remove them myself soon after she had buried "my" corpse._

_O.G._

He leaned against the dank wall of the tiny alcove, the back of his head pressing against the rough stone as his eyes shut. Just a brief moment of ecstasy, just a slight whisper of release, was all he asked for. Thirty minutes—no, twenty—no, ten! Ten minutes of sleep, and he would beg no more. He had not slept in nearly two weeks; he had not dared. For the first week, he had expected Christine to appear at any moment, and so had forced himself to remain awake—he did not want to miss a single moment of her presence at the opera house. For the first half of the second week, he had been in denial. She had just been held up. She had had to find a way around the viscount. She had a long ways to travel. She had children to—No. He did not want to ponder those possibilities.

After finally admitting to himself that she probably would not come, that she probably would break her promise—that perhaps she did not even remember the promise at all—he had been too miserable to do anything at all. No food, no water, no sleep. He would have done nothing but sit and wait, had there not been two factors rousing him into action. The first was his body's demand that its basic needs be met, and as much as Erik may have wished he could, that particular demand was near impossible to ignore. The second was the ever-prying eyes of gawking young men and women, come to see the infamous lair of the Opera Ghost. They never found it, of course, but they came too close for comfort, and he was often forced to result to foolish parlor tricks to frighten them away.

The quiet scuffle of rat's feet on stone met his ears; he ignored it. The Trap-Door Lover was more than accustomed to rodents; the prospect of having a rodent skitter near him, or even across him, did not disturb him._ Maybe I should just end it now, _he thought. After all, if Christine had forsaken him, what hope did he have in the rest of the world? _The rats could eat me..._

A gentle tickle caught his attention, on his right hand. What was th—

He let out a snarl, and jerked his hand away. The rat dashed back into whatever hole it had come out of, leaving Erik with a bloody finger. "Not yet, you filthy vermin!" he hissed. It was uncanny, how the rat's actions had corresponded with his own thoughts, and left him feeling uncomfortable.

He was beginning to rise to his feet, when the sweet, intoxicating voice of his angel came whispering through the sewers.

"Hello?"

The voice trembled with fear, but Erik knew it nonetheless. Silently, he crept through the darkness, in a passageway that ran parallel to the underground river. He could hear the quiet slosh of the water, as she rowed herself uneasily. He could imagine her, in his head. Wide-eyed, glowing with uncertainty, trembling perhaps, and trying to row while holding a torch at the same time. She had never been comfortable, leaving the torch in its holder on the gondola, had always wanted to hold it in her sweet little hands. He pushed a panel aside, and pressed his face against the wall to allow one eye to peer through. The dim halo of light grew closer, and in such impossible darkness, she appeared all the more angelic for it. She was, indeed, attempting to row and hold the torch at the same time, and she continued to have to pause in order to rearrange one or the other. She floated slowly by, brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration. When she was well out of sight, he turned and continued to his lair, taking up at a spot near the lake house and settling in to watch her.

She was already out of the boat, when he arrived, and was looking unsteadily at that fateful well. He could still feel her trembling form wrapped in his arms, could still smell her, could still catch the hint of her taste in his mouth, just as he had then. She was standing several yards away, hands clutched in front of her, just.. staring. A few tremulous steps forwards, and she saw the corpse, where he had placed it sagged against the well. Her first reaction was to press her hands to her mouth and nose. He understood; "he" must have truly stunk, at that point. She stood looking at the corpse for another moment, before running to the edge of the lake and retching into the water. His hands reached towards her, as if to hold her hair back for her—but, of course, he was too far away.

When she had recovered herself considerably, she returned to the corpse and crouched down beside it. "Oh, Erik," she whispered softly. Fingertips brushed against the white mask. She looked as if she were considering removing it, but the disgusting state of the corpse stilled her fingers. After a long moment, she straightened and went inside the lake house. She fetched a shovel, returned to the well, and slowly began digging "his" grave.

He had every intention of excavating the corpse soon after it had been buried, taking Christine's ring—HIS ring—and then disposing of the corpse. He truly did wish to be buried by that tiny well one day, and he did not want to share that hallowed ground with a filthy stagehand's bones.

It took Christine three days to dig the grave to a suitable size and length. She dug almost all day, pausing only to eat and rest. She slept in fits and spurts, in the Louis-Phillipe room, which he had left furnished for her sake. He had also left plenty of food there in the cupboards, which she took great advantage of—and he did not mind, not one tiny bit.

On the third day, she sat back on her heels, and gave one slow nod to the grave. With a green-tinged face, she began working at carefully moving the body the short way to the grave, and laying it out within. She slipped the ring onto his finger, and the last thing she did nearly broke Erik's heart.

She kissed the forehead of that repulsive body, decayed and stinking and nearly unrecognizable as human. She kissed it with such tenderness that he nearly ran to her then and there.

She murmured words over the grave, and then began shoveling dirt over the body. When "Erik" had been buried, she sat cross-legged beside the mound of earth, and wept silent tears. Just before she stood up, one note so faint that it could barely be heard echoed out across the lake.

"Christine..."

The girl shivered, packed her things away into the boat, and fled from the opera house.

* * *

Erik brushed his hands free of dirt, then moved on to brush off his pants and the arms of his shirt. It had not been a pleasant job, taking the ring from the accursed body, and had been an even less pleasant job dragging him to a dry spot and setting fire to him. Erik turned away from the fire and removed that beautiful ring from his pocket, rolling it across his fingers. It was a long moment of consideration, before he placed it on his left ring finger. It felt right there, like it belonged, and it fit perfectly. 

He entered the lake house, and began packing what he would carry into a single trunk and sack. The trunk would hold larger things; he would store it somewhere easily accessible. The sack, he would carry with him: clothes, money, and other such things he would require to be at hand often.

He dragged his things up to the surface, in the depth of the night, and placed them in a carriage he had brought around. César was harnessed to it, and stomping his foot impatiently. Erik waved one hand at him. "I know, I know," he said between pants. "I'll try to hurry." His stamina had worn thin, in the past weeks. He did not feel as if he could go on forever, as he had when Christine had been his. He wondered if it was because he was aging, or merely from sleep deprivation.

Suddenly, it all seemed too overwhelming to face. He did not want to leave; he had become comfortable here. Did he truly have to leave? His weight dropped into his shoes; it felt as if gravity were focusing all its attentions on him. He sank down into an armchair, and released a heavy sigh. They all thought him dead. He could stay on and taunt them. They would be quick to declare him a true ghost, and would fear him more than ever they had before.

But, truly, what held him here? The music usually trapped within his mind had all but fallen silent. The beauty of the opera house was little more than a constant reminder of the ugliness of his face, and of his soul. He did not want to leave the culture of Paris, and yet could hardly wait to escape from the gaudy Parisians and their foolish games of love and politics. Hearing the second-rate music of the opera, now, was merely a reminder of the beauty he himself could no longer create. Nights in front of the organ were spent fruitlessly; only a few disjointed notes would come to him before being reduced to the sour notes that resulted from his mindless banging on the unyielding keys.

He feared this absence of music, this betrayal of the art that had always come so innately. Always he had heard music, in every action, every color, every texture. Music to describe sight, to describe emotions, to give voice to thoughts that no language held the words for. He feared the moment that the music would abandon him totally, to leave him wallowing in the true silence of the world. He had dreamt, once, of the music leaving him, and the silence had been unbearable, even in that surreal world. How could he bear that happening in truth, in reality, irrevocably?

The prospect of death did not frighten him, but giving up on life offended his pride. His moment of weakness, just before the rat bite, still left him writhing uncomfortably in shame. No, he would leave the opera house, and he would find another purpose to which he would devote his life. He would leave the opera house behind.

César popped to mind, and Erik forced himself to his feet. Candles were extinguished, except for one, which he used to guide himself to the organ room. No light was needed to find his way, but it was needed for locating the object he sought. He bent over the desk nearby the organ, and began rifling through drawers, trying his best to leave the papers in his wake in some sort of semblance of order. Finally, a single piece of paper was discovered; he withdrew it reverently, and held it before the candle.

It still smelled like her, still released soft waves of perfume whenever an air current swept over it. He inhaled deeply, and forced his eyes to focus in on the almost childlike script of his beloved.

_Erik,_

_I have not left you, my Angel. I have only gone out for a moment, and will surely return before you've even had time to miss me._

_Regards,_

_Your Christine._

With trembling hands he read it, again and again. She had written it while she was staying with him, once, and had chosen to go up to the streets to fetch a meal. She had cooked him supper, that nighthis angel had cooked him supper! Oh, what bliss had he shared in, and lost? He carefully folded the paper in such a way that the writing was left unharmed, and tucked it into the inside chest pocket of his jacket. His hand patted the spot, lips turning into the slightest of smiles when it was considered that his heart lay just beneath that letter.

Funny, what a different meaning the letter could take on, now that she had truly abandoned him. Was this what people felt, upon reading the letters of a dead loved one? He decided it must have been, for truly, was Christine not dead to him now?

He extinguished the candle, and left the house on the lake behind, with every intention of never again gazing upon it with living eyes. A part of his past, left behind forever. He carried only small memories with him, and unfortunately there were few happy ones to be taken from that era spent beneath the Opera Populaire.

As he clucked César into a trot, the moon shone down on his cowled figure. The big white stallion moved down the cobblestone streets, hoofbeats echoing loudly as their sound bounced from building wall to building wall. No music came to Erik's mind as he listened; the only sound was that of the carriage, coupled with the steady dong of cathedral bells announcing midnight. Perfectly dramatic, flawlessly executed. He could not have asked for a better performance on stagethe great white horse, the black carriage and its grim driver, the light of the full moon that caused both equine and porcelain mask to glow faintly, and the solemn ringing of the bells.

After much arguing with himself, he turned to look one last time upon the Opera Populaire. Apollo and his lyre glowed on the rooftop, though Erik could not decide whether Apollo shone with mirth, or with benevolence; whether he added one last insult to the tragedies Erik had found at the opera house, or sent Erik a final fleeting apology for all that he had seen and been unable to alter.


	3. The New World

_A/N_

_Thanks for the reviews! They're always, always appreciated._

_Sorry it took so long to update; I had a little bit of trouble getting started with this one, but it took off quickly—and, it's a long one, so I hope it was worth the wait._

_There has been a slight confusion, that is totally my fault. My Erik is a Leroux Erik, yes—but in one way, he is different. He has only a half-mask. It is unfair of me, I know, but I can't quite help it. The half-mask makes it more tragic, to me; the potential for beauty being so close makes his fate much more poignant than when he has no chance of conquering the physical beauty that he longs for. _

_Sorry if this disappoints anyone._

_

* * *

_

The New World

_It was with heavy heart that I left my home of so many years. One cannot fully grasp the affection I felt for the opera house, for even with an understanding of all that it had done for me, it seems little more than a house to any other. _

_However, the era of my life in the opera house was finished. It was time for a new place, a new haven, a new cast of people to direct. Paris could not hold me any longer; I had grown tired of the city and her ants. I knew Christine had gone north, with her Viscount, to the lands her father had told her of. There was no desire to encounter them there, for what I feared more than seeing them was seeing a child with rosy cheeks and Christine's curls, with the voice of an angel—and the eyes of a Viscount. No, not to the Northlands. Instead, I would go west, to the land of the people the French so mocked for their morals and their prohibitionist thinking._

_I would go to London._

_-O.G._

Erik tightened his hand on the horse's lead rope, tugging gently to gain César's attention. The ivory stallion had not cared much for the journey across the English Channel, and upon reaching land had immediately begun to fight for freedom. With one hand continuously patting the horse's neck in an attempt to appease it, Erik led it down the dark street. The patting held a second element of convenience, for it supplied Erik with a way to steady himself whenever a slick patch was met on the street—and there were plenty of those.

It had been difficult to find a ship that would take him across the channel in the dead of night, but the money he had with him had been enough to persuade one shady boatman. It had been explained that the presence of the masked man was to be kept discreet, and the boatman had had nothing but reassurances to give Erik—in exchange for money, of course. Erik and César had kept beneath deck, Erik crouched behind the flank of the beast. Luckily, the horse had enough sense to keep still while his master was behind him, but as soon as firm ground was beneath him and his master in no danger of being trod upon, he had begun expressing his displeasure in an utterly obvious manner.

And now what? Erik had no clue. His plan had involved getting to England... and nothing else. His trunk and sack were stored away carefully in a room at an inn—César also had a stall there, waiting for him. Erik had only to get there, now, and slip up into his room without being noticed. He trusted that he would find his belongings there, trusted this because the men taking care of them had been paid handsomely—and there had been no shortage of threats, as to what would happen should the belongings not be there when Erik arrived. His threats had been somewhat less eloquent than he would have preferred; having not practiced English in so long, his use of it had deteriorated, and he did not have all the words at his beck and call that he would have preferred.

César nickered, and Erik looked up. Warm light spilled into the streets, along with the sounds of a few occupants; the clink of mugs, the scrape of chair legs on the floor, the too-loud laughter of those who had loitered too long in what seemed to be the inn's tavern portion. He led César past that, keeping his head ducked beneath the cowl of his cloak, and led him to the stables behind the inn. Sure enough, a large stall waited there for him; it was the size of a foaling stall, with more than enough space for the horse to lie down, pace, or otherwise make himself comfortable. It was also set off from the other stalls, as had been requested; a stallion had no place housed near other horses. Placing him near geldings would have been tempting Fate enough already. To risk having him placed near a mare would be... foolish, at best.

Erik coiled the horse's lead rope around a bridle hook next to the stall. He left the halter on; César could be ornery, sometimes, and Erik dared not risk having to draw attention to himself by arguing with the horse about putting his halter back on. He checked around the outside of the stall, searching for his things. As expected, César's harness and bridle had been stored away neatly, just where it belonged. The carriage, just as he had been promised, was parked in an out of the way corner of the stables.

With everything so immaculately cared for, he pushed aside his nagging concern, and turned his back on César's stall. _Everything is fine_, he told himself, a note of irritation ringing in the thought. _The horse is fine, your belongings are fine—everything is fine_.

"Sir?"

Erik nearly leapt out of his skin. With an angry whirl of his cloak, he turned to observe the tiny voice that had so rudely disturbed him.

The child did not shrink back from the dark man's rage, but instead widened both mouth and eyes, to peer upon him with something of a mix between shock and adoration.

"What?" Erik demanded. Too late, to attempt to cover the mask with a cunningly-arranged cowl; he would have to hope the child was just a beggar, and that his words would hold no true weight in the town.

The boy skittered forward, to peer at the man's face more closely. "Wow..." He spoke with the thick accent of a lower-class Brit; the strong, almost angry slurring of words that would be difficult to follow for someone who spoke English well; if the conversation became complicated, Erik knew for a fact he would be in an utterly hopeless situation. "What happened to your face?" the boy asked, with the sheer candidness of youth.

The left corner of Erik's lips curled upwards in something of a snarl, and he turned the right side of his face away from the child. "Not a matter for your concern," he replied simply.

"Well you're in _my_ barn, so I'd say that makes it _my _concern." The child folded his arms on his chest, and moved around Erik to ensure that the man continued to look in his direction.

His singular visible eyebrow arched high on his forehead. The boy struck a chord; his declaration of ownership, when he quite obviously was far from such, struck a little too close to home. He shifted uncomfortably, and again attempted to fasten his gaze elsewhere. The boy merely followed that gaze, though, effortlessly positioning himself in its direct line.

"Well?"

He frowned. _Impatient little urchin..._

"See here, now. I'll just see to it that your horse doesn't get a bit o' dinner, and then we'll see how willin' you are to talk to us, how about that?"

One hand had the boy by the hair before the youth could even see it coming. "You'll see to it that no harm comes to that horse, if you are wise."

A look of concern crossed the boy's face, but he did not totally give in to the fear that must have been wrapping its icy fingers around his heart. "Ow!" he yelled, hands rising to clamp around the wrist of his assailant. "Lemme go, y' big oaf!"

Erik thrust him away, watching with no small amount of pleasure as the boy stumbled over his own feet and fell to the ground. He turned his back to the boy, and began fixing his cowl so that it would cast the half-mask into shadow. Because of this foolish err in judgment, he did not see the boy launch his little form onto Erik's large one. The shock of the impact, more than the force of it—the child could not have been more than eight or nine years—sent Erik to the ground, and the impact of that fall sent his mask tumbling to the earth.

One arm reached around behind him, its respective fingers wrapping around the boy's dirty shirt, and prying him from his perch. He clung like a monkey, but Erik had the upper hand, in that he was both stronger, and calmer. The boy was flung, as gently as possible, to the ground—in front of him, this time. His hand reached out to grope for the mask, but the urchin was already on his feet and scrambling for Erik again, all teeth and nails and pummeling fists. Already on his knees, Erik could not evade the child; instead, he blocked with one arm, while the other tried desperately to get a good hold on the boy.

"Nobody does Henri Goodings like that!" the boy yelled. "Nobody!"

_Convenient,_ Erik found himself thinking, with something of a wry smile. _For that is exactly who your assailant is, dear boy—nobody._

His hand finally found purchase, on the boy's collar; he used it to tug the boy in close, and locked him into something of a bear-hug, efficiently trapping him there. The boy writhed, trying desperately to escape Erik's grasp—and then, something more than writhing began to happen. The boy's body went rigid, and then began to spasm and convulse all over, with no clear goal in mind. Erik did his best to hold him still, to wait out the storm and protect the boy from the self-inflicted damage fits such as this could result in.

Or at least, so had Erik heard. He had not much experience with them, but he had seen a few—there had been a stagehand, once, that had them—and had read about them more than enough. When the boy finally went still, drooping like putty in Erik's arms, he allowed his muscles to relax.

He had not realized just how tight a hold he had kept on the boy, but now every muscle in his arms, back, and neck ached as if he had been indulging in difficult lifting work for several hours. With a resigned sigh, he lifted the mask from its hazardous position nearby. The hay scattered about the floor had cushioned its fall, and the boy had been polite enough to attack from a different side; in short, the mask was unharmed, though it was more than a little dirty. One edge of the cloak was used to clean it as best he could, before his hands pressed it into place on his face again.

Lucky, that the boy had been too preoccupied with anger to really notice the fateful unmasking.

Erik positioned the cowl carefully around his face, and then lifted the boy easily in his arms. He carried him to the main building of the inn, and carefully eased inside the common room. A few eyes lifted, but no one took much notice; the inn, while a good one, had been chosen for its unfortunate positioning in a rather seedy part of town. A "don't ask, don't tell" type of a place, or so Erik had been told.

He moved towards the innkeeper, who was positioned behind a worn bar. Erik cleared his throat, and the man glanced up from his newspaper. A frown creased his already rotund features, and he set the paper down in favor of crossing his arms. "What you doin' wif that boy?" he asked, obviously somewhat displeased.

_So much for the 'don't tell' part._ "He.. fainted." What had the name been..? Ah, yes. "I have a room, reserved for a Monsieur John Parkins?"

The innkeeper said no more, merely nodded and gestured towards a shabby set of stairs to the right. "At the very end. Biggest room we had, sir."

Erik nodded once, murmured a thanks, and shifted the boy's weight in his arms. As an afterthought, he added, "Supper would be nice. In my room. Enough for two."

The man's frown deepened, but he nodded to Erik's request, and moved off to see to it. Somewhat satisfied, he turned to conquer the imminent trip up the stairs. It was not as difficult as he had expected; he had underestimated his endurance after all, it seemed. When his room was gained, entered, and locked securely, he set the boy down at last—on the bed, of course. _Though, I don't know that you could call it a bed,_ he thought, with no small amount of irritation. It was a tiny thing; there was no way that Erik would be able to sleep comfortably on it. Too short, too narrow, and too... Well. He did not know of another "too", but he was sure there was one.

"Mmf."

The boy was coming around. Erik moved farther to one corner of the room, quickly removing the cowl and allowing his face to be touched by the light once more.

The boy—Henri, he'd called himself—slowly sat up, big round eyes looking around questioningly. When he found the shape of the man, his jaw dropped open. "You didn't kill me?"

A sharp burst of laughter followed that ridiculous question. "Quite obviously, no. You had a... a fit. I thought it would be best if I brought you somewhere more comfortable than that barn." He paused, and smiled. "That, and I am no longer comfortable trusting you with my horse."

The boy watched him warily, as he eased out of the bed. One quick glance was spared for the door. "Are you always this kind to those who attack you, sir?"

Erik considered those words for a moment, and felt a wave of sorrow spill into his stomach. It was a question that was almost too personal. Of course, Christine had never attacked him, not the way that Henri meant, but... He shook his head, to clear his head of the foolish thoughts, but Henri took it as an answer.

"Oh." Silence yawned like a gaping maw, beckoning them to fall into its awkward entrapment. Erik was more than willing, but Henri fought it valiantly. "So.. What happened to your face?"

Erik migrated to a chair, set up near the window of the tiny room. His eyes drifted, until they had located the presence of the trunk in one corner, and the sack neatly set atop it. _Good. Good, good, good._ He had experienced enough betrayal to carry him over for a lifetime; he needed no more insult to be added to the injuries of his soul. He avoided Henri's question on purpose, instead making the quiet suggestion of, "Perhaps you should go down to the kitchens, and inquire after our supper."

The promise of supper was enough to distract the boy, who immediately unbarred the room's door and bounded off down the corridor. Erik raised a hand to trace his fingers across the morbid porcelain, and shut his eyes in a pained expression. Random selections of notes constantly flowed through his mind, bits and pieces of every opera he had ever heard, all combining into one horrifying medley. Part of him rejoiced in the loud, demanding presence of the music; another part of him mourned that only music previously heard could repeat itself in his mind, now; no longer did his mind formulate a pattering of notes for every sensation.

_When the music ends, does my life then end as well? _

"Sir?"

Erik started out of his miniature reverie, to find Henri standing uncertainly in the doorway, clutching a large tray of food. Two barmaids were staggering along behind him, with a table clutched between them. A third followed, with two chairs. Erik quickly turned his head to face out the window, and kept it there, until the maids had left. He heard the quiet thump of the tray being set down, and when he turned back to the room, Henri was setting each dish out and placing it as perfectly as if he had been trained for such a thing.

Curiosity piqued, Erik rose and moved to the table. He removed his cloak and took his seat, one elegant hand lifting the awkward silverware—though something told him _silver_ was too flattering a term—and holding it, poised, above the dish of.. something. A stew, perhaps? Bread, cool and of poor quality, accompanied this bizarre dish, as did a block of cheese that looked none too fresh. He waited patiently for Henri to take his seat, and then began to apprehensively test the .. stew. It was not terrible, though neither was it something he would have requested a second serving of.

Henri did not seem to have the same pickiness of palate that Erik had; he had very nearly devoured his entire serving before Erik had even taken his fifth spoonful. Without a second glance at his host, the boy snatched up the bread, and practically crammed the whole thing into his mouth. The infamous left eyebrow was on the rise again, very nearly threatening to vanish into the crisp black hairline. When Henri extended his grubby hand towards the cheese, Erik leaned back, hands folding atop his abdomen. It was an interesting spectator-sport, observing the boy; he felt as if he should have been placing bets. When would the boy stop? Would he go after Erik's "stew" as well?

The cheese was quite totally gone. Erik was not completely sure that it was wise to allow the boy to eat so much, so quickly. Could not a man become ill, that way? He assumed the same laws would apply to a child.

When Henri had finished sucking his fingers clean of the remnants of cheese—and, Erik noticed with slight disgust, some of the filth as well—he looked unsure of what to do with himself. With one hand, Erik lifted his own bowl and held it towards Henri. There was almost no pause to speak of between the offer and the acceptance; almost immediately, the bowl was taken and drained of its contents.

"Hungry, are we?" Erik asked mildly.

Henri, still in the act of wiping his mouth with the collar of his shirt, suddenly flushed a bright scarlet. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean t—"

"It's quite alright, Henri," Erik assured him. The boy's name sounded much more elegant, when spoken with Erik's vibrant French accent.

The boy, still blushing, gave a slight nod. Without further ado, he stood and began to pile the cutlery back onto a tray. As he was walking towards the door, he paused, and turned back to face Erik. "Does the master care for more supper?"

_Master...? _"No, thank you. That taste of the inn's hospitality was quite enough." Erik dipped his head in a slight nod to the boy, who immediately slipped free of the room's confines, presumably to return the dishes to the kitchens.

_A nice boy. Where did he acquire such impeccable manners—and why does he not make more use of them? _

Erik stood, and walked to the window. He looked down on the city street, at the snow still gently falling. It would be spring, soon; already, the snow had lost its vigor, and now seemed to fall more for the sake of falling than anything else. In a way, Erik was glad for the changing of seasons. It would do him good, he supposed, to finally relinquish that fateful winter. Still, it seemed a shame, to finally admit defeat, and move forever into the loneliness of a new season. Letting go of winter was letting go of the dream of being loved—letting go of winter was letting go of Christine. Accepting the progression of the seasons was accepting that he would go on being the same way he had always been: alone.

Still, accept it or not, Erik knew it would happen; all his pain, all his sorrow, all his misery would not change the fact that the years continued to progress. For all the love that was in his heart—and the hatred, as well—it was not enough to stop time, and certainly not enough to rewind it, as much as he may have desired to do so.

"Oh, to rewind... If only I could go back to the times before..." He shook his head. So many things he would have done differently. So many other things he would try, so many things he would say differently. He would like to think he would not, in that alternate repetition of reality, exploit the "angel angle", but he could not have sworn to it.

"Before what, sir?" came the meek voice behind him. Erik tensed, but did not show any other sign of having been taken by surprise. At the opera house, he had never been so dull in his senses. Was it the unfamiliar surroundings, or had Christine's rejection and subsequent desertion really taken such a high toll?

"Before.. your face?"

Erik turned his head to the left, allowing his good eye to look across the room at the young boy who stood there, head ducked but eyes defiantly fastened onto Erik's, hands clasped tightly in front of him. Erik was considering how to answer him, but the boy interrupted his thoughts. "Forgive me, sir," he said quickly, moving to push the table and the pair of chairs off into a corner of the room, where they would be out of the way. "It.. was not my place to ask, sir."

That golden gaze was returned to the city streets, but it looked upon them with unseeing eyes. "You speak with such manners, when you think yourself to be in trouble." He paused for a moment. "Tell me, Henri, who taught you to speak thus?"

"My mam, sir," he replied sulkily. "She was a servant, for a duke. A good one, too, sir—perhaps too good."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "How so?"

"The duke took a fancy to her, sir, and she allowed him to indulge himself, because it weren't her place to turn him away." Erik winced at the boy's sometimes off-color grammar, but kept his comments to himself. No point in frightening the boy into a shell. "I came out o' that match, sir. I'd have a home there, too, if Mam hadn't have been so secretive about it. Wouldn't even tell the other servants who I come from. They all figured it were the baker, sir, or the butcher. Mam was always real friendly with people, sir, and the other servants thought that maybe she were a bit too friendly, if you catch my drift." The boy turned away from Erik. "The fits, sir. They didn't like the fits. When Mam died, the master said he couldn't have no boy with fits, that it wouldn't suit, so he had me thrown out."

"And you've been living on the streets, ever since?" Erik guessed; Henri's windowpane reflection nodded.

"Ah... How old are you, Henri?"

"Fifteen, sir."

Shock wrapped her fuzzy-numb fingers around Erik's innards. He had imagined the boy to be young, far younger than that. Henri seemed to realize this, and chuckled. "It is something of an anomaly, sir; I appear much younger than I am. It is as if my body reached a point it was happy with, and then.. just.." The boy shrugged. "Stopped."

A long silence stretched, then; neither of them had anything easy to say, and even the difficult things seemed trivial. It was a good silence, a comfortable silence.

But of course, as Erik knew—better than anyone in the world, Erik knew—all good things must come to an end, and this one proved to be no different. "You should stay with me, Henri."

The boy turned to look at Erik's back, brows knit in confusion. "What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean, stay with me." He hated to use the word, but... "Serve me."

As soon as he had said it, he knew it had been as ill-chosen a term as he had thought it to be—Henri visibly bristled. "I'm not a poor, blind servant, like my Mam, sir. I'll not—"

"I do not mean to press you into slavery, Henri. I need.. someone I can depend upon. The arrangement would be quite simple." He still did not turn to look at the boy; some things were just more easily said while free of eye contact. "You would be fed to your pleasure, sheltered, clothed, and educated. Your every need, and most of your desires, would be met; anything that I could give you would be yours for the asking."

He could see the boy considering it; slowly, warily, the boy asked, "In exchange for what, exactly?"

"Unquestioning loyalty."

It was a lot to ask, but Erik had never believed in dancing around the subject, and that was exactly what he needed from the boy. He needed a man who would stand by him, who would do as he was asked, when he was asked, without doubt.

Seeing that the boy was still suspicious, Erik turned towards him. "As I'm quite sure you can imagine, Henri, I have a very.. interesting.. affliction. I cannot move in the world as most men can; I must stay hidden away." To point to the mask was unnecessary; Henri had already fastened his hungry eyes onto the porcelain surface. "I need a man who can be my eyes, my hands. I need a man who can accomplish the things that I want accomplished." He lowered his head, intensifying a gaze that could already lead men to tremble. Henri met it squarely. "I need you, Henri, as much as you need me."

The boy watched him for a long time, before nodding, and extending a hand towards Erik. "It would be my pleasure to serve you, Master."

Erik took the hand, and gave it a firm pump. "Please, Henri. My name is Erik."

* * *

Henri sat up in the bed, eyes searching the gloom for his new friend. The dark shadow was difficult to locate, but those inquisitive, sea-green eyes eventually happened upon him—there, dozing in the chair by the window. He was moving some, but from the soft keening sounds he emitted, Henri hazarded that it was a dream, and nothing more. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and quietly padded over to where his master slept. He had not wanted to take the bed, but Erik had insisted.

And, quite frankly, Henri did not have the willpower to argue the point very far.

It was on this fateful night that Henri first heard the name that would haunt the pair's years to come, that would plague him quite as surely as it plagued his master. As he moved closer to Erik's huddled form, the ghastly, skeletal half-mask gleaming in the light from the window, he saw that Erik's lips were moving. He leaned closer, bracing one hand on the window sill.

"Christine..."

Henri straightened, looking at the man again. Who was Christine? Certainly, he had no wife. Henri also assumed he had no offspring; he seemed far too alone, for such everyday things as this. An unrequited love, then? It was plausible that he, a man with a deformity dire enough that a flame leapt in his eyes whenever it was mentioned, would certainly have loved, and not been loved in return.

"Christine!"

Henri started, clenching his arms to himself and watching the man cagily. He had seen the faintest whisper of the man's temper, and never wished to see it full-blown; if he awoke from such a nightmare, and found that he was being watched, would it drive him to anger?

Erik twisted suddenly, bumping the right side of his face against his shoulder. The mask wobbled, and slowly dripped away from his face; it was not long until it was plummeting to the ground. Quick as lightning, Henri caught the object between his fingers, and set it on the window sill. Unable to stop himself, he looked to the man's face. With it turned so awkwardly, he could see only a dim line where healthy flesh was wrinkled... Erik's head twisted again, as if trying to escape some terrible sight. This time, it turned the right side of his face full into the light from the window.

Henri staggered back, one hand covering his heart. The flesh of a corpse! It was papery skin, of a yellow-brown tint. The man had no right nostril. Just above his lips, the flesh eased back into that of a healthy man; it explained why the man always appeared to be holding his lips in a strange expression. The skin beneath his eye was drooped, and his eyebrow was nothing more than an oddly shaped hunk of flesh. The skin looked not only decayed, but also as if it had melted, like that of a doll held too long before a flame. With a shuddering breath, Henri turned his head away from the sight.

Unrequited love was beginning to look like an explanation that was far more than plausible.

Shakily, Henri returned to the bed, and slid beneath the coverlets. When he shut his eyes, he could not rid himself of that face, but it was not pondered with just horror. It was pondered, also, with great amounts of affectionate pity. Henri had been thought odd, had been shunned by his friends, for the fits and the stunted growth. The marks of demons, they had said; they claimed the fits were his possessing demons showing through the façade of human skin. He could not imagine, even having that to base things on, what Erik must have gone through. He looked as if he could have _been_ a demon. Had even his mother loved that face? Had she kissed its gruesome cheek? Or had she treated him the same way that all of society must have—as a terrible beast, to be avoided at all costs?

The final thought that drifted through his mind, before he drifted into sleep, was one that would define his relationship with his Master for the rest of their time together.

_You had better not have hurt him, Christine._

_

* * *

_

Hot lips pressed to cold skin. His body covered hers, and blankets covered his; still, she was cold. Hands roamed, touching, caressing, heating. So long, he had awaited this chance to explore her body, with mouth, hands, and eyes. So long, he had dreamt of this day's coming, and always he had believed it would never come true.

"Christine," he breathed; he could feel his own hot breath against her neck, but her own body was still cold. Had she fallen into the water again? He couldn't recall, but the bed did feel wet...

One hand slid from breast to hip, moving along her abdomen. It felt.. wrong. He lifted his torso, trying to see it without removing himself from her completely. Her body looked powdery; her stomach was warped and bruised. He touched it; a broken rib moved beneath his hand.

Immediately, he was out of her and off of her and kneeling beside her. She was cold... Her hair was matted, but not with water. _Blood_. He scrambled from the bed. Her blood was everywhere; he was covered in it. Her blank eyes stared towards the ceiling, and the Punjab was around her neck. Flashes of memory clouded his vision. A man; he had beaten her, for.. talking to the man? For running away with him! The man... He turned, to find what he feared: the viscount's body, propped—posed—in a chair, eyes turned to watch the goings-on of the bed.

Erik staggered backwards, one hand pressing against his mouth. Had he...?

More flashes. Throwing her down, kicking her. Her head had slammed against the stone floor. She had crawled to him, hugging his ankles and begging forgiveness with a slurred voice. And he'd strangled her.

And he had liked it.

He stumbled against the wall, breaths coming raggedly, head spinning.

"What have I done?" he wailed.

Her head turned to look at him, neck cracking; it was bent at an odd angle. In a voice ruined by death, the demonic dead thing snarled, in mocking tones:

"To hell with you, angel!"

Erik woke up so quickly that he fell from the chair. Still breathing hysterically, he barely managed to thrust the window open and stick his head out before he began retching. It was naught but acidic phlegm that was thrust up his throat—the stuff provided by the body when one had not eaten, but when the body demanded to vomit nonetheless.

He spat, several times, trying desperately to rid his mouth of the taste, to rid his mind of the horrible dream. He could hear Henri's quiet snoring; the sound soothed him. He had not harmed his little songbird; she was far away from here, with her lover...

At that thought, he could not help but turn, to assure himself that there was no nobleman's corpse positioned in the corner, watching his every move.

* * *

_So, what do you think? Was the dream a little too much? I like it, but.. I don't know. Is it too...? _

_Hm, I don't know what I'm trying to say, but feedback is definitely required for this one. Whether the dream-sequence stays or goes will hinge on the opinions of my readers. _


	4. The First Step

_A/N_

_So far, I've had several "Keep it!"s, and only one "Dump it!", so the dream stays, for now, at least. This chapter involves some Christine. She'll come and go at kind of random intervals, in the story. _

_Enjoy! _

* * *

The First Step

_It was deigned of specific import that suitable housing be acquired. I still had sufficient funds, from my days at the opera house, enough to afford comfortable living situations for Henri and myself for at least a year. It was obvious that a steady income would need to be attained, but what I had in my current possession would be enough for the time being._

_And so, with little further ado, we set out for London. It was not a ridiculously long trip, and thus it was deemed economically intelligent that we travel by way of César and my carriage. Once we arrived in London, I found an apartment of considerable size, and by means which I never intend to fully reveal, purchased furniture for our new home, as well. With Henri's help, I invested a large sum of my money in what a great authority had informed me would be wise: a trading company. This great authority located for me a company in great need of funds, that was also showing much promise; and, with little procrastination, I began to receive returns. _

_Within only six months, my investment had already begun to pay off highly. With such a large sum of money—and only steadily growing larger—I decided to see to Henri's education. I found one of London's finest tutors, and also sent him to study with a butler—for, if I intended to one day trust him with the run of my household, I desired that he be totally informed. He was an intelligent lad, and it took him only three years to complete his learning and training both. I then sent him on to higher education; he studied with accountants, physicians, lawyers, and though he studied with them only briefly and in little detail, they were all of great esteem in their field. _

_My days without Henri—for he was almost never at home, for even once he had finished studying for one day, he still had many chores to run for my sake—passed slowly. I spent them reading up on the literature of the day—Henri was always very careful to bring me things he thought I would enjoy—or browsing through the periodicals that Henri enjoyed reading. He was always leaving them strewn about the house, which left me no choice but to pick them up.. and, in doing so, I must admit my attention was captured. I feel rather embarrassed to admit that I especially enjoyed the ones he brought home involving the stories from the "Wild West" of the Americas..._

_-O.G._

Erik tossed aside his third periodical of the day, and breathed a heavy sigh. One hand rose to massage his eyes, pressing furtively against the little orbs, and observing the multicolored spots that the pressure inspired. He had taken to not bothering with the mask, while Henri was not home; he felt secure in his privacy. Heavy curtains remained drawn throughout the house when Henri was absent, and in all rooms except Henri's even when he was home.

Erik had begun to regret how rarely the boy was around—though, he supposed he could no longer refer to him as a boy. In his seventeenth year, it had quite suddenly occurred to Henri's body that perhaps it should attempt to keep up with the mind and years of its inhabitant. And so, in almost literal leaps and bounds, the boy's body had warped into that of a young man—and a handsome one, too; almost handsome enough to upset the poor once-Phantom of the Opera.

Angry knuckles dug into his eyes, attempting weakly to dash away the images flashing through his mind. It was not enough that every waking moment was a reminder of his failure; he had, also, to deal with the constant memories, the doubts, the regrets—but, most frustratingly, the perfect hindsight that supplied him with so many obvious alternatives to the routes he had chosen.

One hand fished out his pocket-watch, and flipped its cover open. Three forty-two, in the afternoon. Henri would not be home for at least another few hours. He stood quickly, just as fluidly as ever—it pleased him to find that he had not lost the grace he had possessed in the opera house—and meandered into the kitchen. Fingers closed around a cold biscuit, and he nibbled on the near-tasteless object. A mug of coffee, long gone cold, still perched forlornly on the corner of the counter; he grimaced, and drank it anyway.

The sound of a key in the door froze him in place. He listened, coffee mug poised a finger's-breadth from his lips, as the lock clicked open and the door swung in. Silently, he set the mug down, and eased into his own rooms.

"Erik?"

Shoulders sagged with relief, as Henri's voice came wafting through the apartment. Erik quickly retrieved his mask, pressed it into place, and then moved to join Henri in the kitchen.

The boy was lifting the mug, feeling of its temperature, and frowning. "You were drinking this?" Erik shrugged, as Henri tossed the coffee down the drain and moved to produce more. "It's not difficult to work the stove, you know. You could easily fix yourself more."

"I didn't want to waste what had already been made." The words were chosen carefully; Henri did not seem to be in the best of moods. Erik took a seat at the small kitchen table, and folded his hands on the cool surface. "What are you doing home so early?"

Henri turned around sharply, and looked down at Erik with no small amount of exasperation. Erik's cautiously-lifted brow caused nothing but more agitation. "Erik, we—you—I—have a meeting today, remember? With Mr. Bradbury?"

Of course. The man who had been seeing to the money that traveled between Erik and his investment. He had written a letter, declaring it of great importance that he meet with the investor and have a discussion pertaining to the health of the company. "Ah, yes, I remember," he offered, to quell the look of anxiety spreading across Henri's face. "And?"

Henri's hand rose to mash against his cheek. "Erik... Dear God in Heaven, Erik, this can't be a good meeting. What if the company's gone bankrupt? What are you going to do then? You've got no alternative source of income, do you?"

The boy needn't have asked—he knew more about Erik's funds than Erik did. "So, then, we'll find another. We've got enough money to go for quite a while..."

Henri, of course, knew he was correct, but it did not seem to make the boy feel much better.

Coffee was seen to and distributed, with enough remaining to make Mr. Bradbury comfortable. Henri sat down at the table with Erik, and quiet murmurs of conversation held them over until four, at which time Bradbury was scheduled to arrive. A few moments beforehand, Erik rose and made his way to his rooms, where he always was when company arrived. He listened as Henri walked about, opening all the curtains, and tidying up the magazines that first he, and then Erik, had left lying about.

Before long, a knock came at the door. Muffled voices, greetings and questions after one another's health. Henri inquired after the well-being of Bradbury's family; Bradbury, knowing Henri had no family, inquired after the well-being of his bank account. Both replied that things were marvelous, of course; it was only polite to do so.

"Care for coffee, Mr. Bradbury?"

"Oh, yes, please, Henri."

Both of them walked into the kitchen. There was silence for a moment, as Henri presumably was pouring the coffee. He heard two chairs dragged across the floor, and the quiet _clunk _of the mug being set on the table. He heard Henri begin to say something, and then suddenly fall silent. Silence stretched, and finally:

"Who's that third mug for?"

Erik's jaw clenched. He had left his coffee... and so had Henri.

_Come on, Henri. You're smart enough for this, kid.. Make something up!_

"Oh.. That's mine." A sharp, nervous bark of laughter. "I, uh. I get lazy, you know? Just pull out another mug."

Bradbury was quiet for a while longer. There was no way, of course, that anyone could believe Henri was that lazy, that messy. The near-immaculate state of his living conditions was testament enough against that. However, after a few moments' consideration, Bradbury apparently decided it was not worth it to call Henri on the lie, and allowed it to pass.

"Anyway, Mr. Goodings, I feel it important that we speak... honestly, with one another, about the business."

The sound of Henri sitting interrupted a few of Bradbury's words. Erik cursed the pitiful eavesdropping post, and swore to find himself a better one.

"—hasn't been doing so well, in Africa. A family just died, recently; a little too fond of safari, you see, and... well, the Dark Continent claimed another respectable English family."

Erik frowned, and Henri echoed his own thoughts: "Why are you telling _me_ this, Mr. Bradbury?"

"Because, Mr. Goodings. You're a strapping young lad. Certainly a man your age has a taste for adventure? Certainly, simple pursuits within London cannot hold your attention."

Erik cursed the man; he could almost feel Henri's anticipation. Bradbury was correct, of course—Henri had aspirations that went far beyond London and its dreary life, but he would never have moved to take them without Erik's consent—until now.

"We need a representative out there, Mr. Goodings. A good man, a smart man, who can help to arrange the shipping back and forth, that can speak with the businessmen there, that can oversee the run of things. You'd receive pay, for your time there, as well as a spending allowance—and, of course, you would still receive the usual money, from the investment.

"The family lived on a plantation; you'd be well looked after. Servants, stables, acres and acres of land, and right on the edge of a town, so entertainment would not be far off. A respectable, English town, mind you, with a pub and billiards and good Englishmen."

"I.. will have to think this over, of course," Henri replied, barely waiting until Bradbury had finished speaking.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Goodings. I would except nothing less, from a man of your intellect." He heard Bradbury stand, heard his footsteps fade as he moved towards the door. "You know where to reach me, lad." And the door was shut behind him.

* * *

"No."

"But Erik, didn't you hear what he said? We'd be swimming in money before you could even—"

Erik raised a hand to press against the left half of his forehead, kneading the skin there as if it could do any good against the throbbing in his mind. He had no desire to leave Europe—why would he? Leaving Paris had been a very huge step in accepting his past, but to leave Europe seemed almost too big a step, too vast a separation from Christine. He still held the foolish hope that one day, he would look down from one of his windows and see her form passing below, and he would go to her, and she would—

Henri's fist collided with his shoulder. "You aren't even listening to me, are you?"

"Don't raise your voice to me," Erik growled. "And don't hit me either, damn it." The hand that had been seeing to his forehead now abandoned its post, to rub his shoulder. "I'm thinking." Sulky tones, more befitting of a teenager than an aging man.

"Yes, and I know what you're thinking about, as well." Angry eyes met his own; Henri was squaring off for a confrontation. Erik turned away from him and moved to the window, pushing back the curtains ever so slightly and looking down on the street below.

_Look at all the people, old man. Look at all the men, women, and children who will never know of you, never hear your story, never feel your pain. They know nothing of your existence; why should they care, if you desire the world to end? They will never worry for you, never think about you, never wonder how you are doing. They will never lie awake at night, hoping you have found love, and happiness. They will never look up and see you staring down—their hearts will never go out to you. Only you feel sorry for you—what does the world care for the pitiful fate of the Opera Ghost? _

"Erik."

His name brought him back to himself. "Hm?" His eyes never left the bustle of the streets.

"Let us go. What is there to keep us here?"

What, indeed? Had that not been his reason for leaving Paris? He told himself he was leaving his past behind, but truly had it not just been a lack of a reason to stay? No one in Paris wanted him in Paris. No one in London wanted him in London. But Henri, Henri wanted him in Africa. Why not go to Africa, then?

And then, the unbelievable happened.

A spot of light in the sea of darkness below him. Curly, unruly hair, silken as the wind against the flesh of his accursed face; dark, round eyes, filled with wonder and life and beauty; flawless skin, and the mouth of an angel... That face turned to look straight into his window, and her skin went white as the dress she wore. So far away, and already beginning to back farther. Erik raised a hand and pressed it against the glass, straining against his cage even as his little sparrow turned and vanished into the sea of people.

"Henri!" he gasped, turning from the window. "She is here! She has come!"

The boy stared at him as if he had gone mad. Had he? He did not care. "I must—I can't! Oh, Henri, please, you must go after her!" He turned back to the window. "She has gone around the corner, to the right. She will be gone forever! Henri, please! Go and fetch her! She is wearing white... She is the only one wearing white..."

He heard the door shut before he realized that Henri had obeyed him. His weight sagged against the wall beside the window, as he watched Henri's form spill out onto the street and rush in the direction Erik had specified.

_Please, let him find her..._ _If there be any compassion in the world, let him find her..._

_

* * *

_

Christine de Chagny, formerly known as Christine Daaé, staggered to a halt in a less crowded space of walkway, and allowed her trembling form to collapse against the brick wall behind her. People passed her by without a second glance. No one cared for the foreigner who swooned against a wall, hand pressed to her bosom.

"Madam?"

Eyes flicked up to the man standing before her, and a breath was released. His voice... But, no, it did not matter what his voice had sounded like—for, quite obviously, this blonde-haired young man was far from being who she had feared.

"Madam, are you alright?" He stepped closer to her, and offered his arm for support. She took it thankfully, and put no small amount of her weight on it—though, the weight of a woman her size was no great burden.

"Yes, thank you, Monsieur. I.. have not eaten, and was feeling a little faint."

He began to walk, and she followed, too distraught to realize he was taking her in the direction she had just come from.

"You look as if you have seen a ghost, Madam."

Oh, if only the boy knew how ironic his choice of words truly was. "Yes, Monsieur, I suppose you could say that I have." She paused, fanning herself, and then amended, "Or, that I thought I had." Surely, there was no way that the face looking down on her had been—? It was not possible. She had buried him, in Paris, years ago. He was no more than a rotting corpse, now.

A terrible part of her mind quipped, _Was he ever more than a rotting corpse? _

She chided herself for allowing that thought to pass through her mind, and forced it to instead focus on the young man aiding her.

"What ever do you mean, Madam? You are not hallucinating, are you?"

Christine laughed. "No, no, Monsieur. If you would kindly point me in the way of—"

"Perhaps you should come to my apartment, and allow me to make you something to eat?" The young man looked at her earnestly.

Fear gripped her heart, at the same time that appreciation flooded her mind. She had either fallen into the grips of a rapist, or a kind gentleman indeed. It was not proper to go to a man's flat, especially not when one was married. But.. when one's husband had suddenly vanished from one's side, leaving one to find one's own way through a strange city?

"Oui, Monsieur. I would like that, very much."

He smiled, and continued to lead her onward. She paid little mind to where they were going.

"So, from France, are we?"

She nodded. "I lived there, a few years ago. I moved, with my husband... but his sister invited us to spend time with her here, in London."

The man's lips pursed—she assumed, from disapproval. "Where is your husband, Madam? Does he often abandon you to your own devices?"

"No, Monsieur. We became separated. I assumed he wished me to meet with him at his sister's home, but I am not truly sure where that is."

The man smiled. "Well, after we have eaten, if you will tell me the address, I will see to it that you arrive there safely."

"Oh, thank you, Monsieur."

The man extended his hand, and smiled. "Please, Madam—my name is Henri."

She raised her eyes to meet his own, and placed her hand lightly in his. "Christine, Monsieur. It is a pleasure to meet you." His face brightened, at the same moment that his eyes fell into shadow.

They reached his flat in no time at all, and he led her up two flights of stairs before unlocking a door and admitting her in. The room was dark; the curtains were all drawn, and daylight was fading. Henri cut on two lamps, on either side of the door, and supplied a little light for the sitting room. He motioned Christine into a chair; she took it gratefully. It was a rather overstuffed arm chair, that forced her to lean back a little more than she would have preferred, but it was suitable—and, appreciated, for after wandering the streets of London for nigh on three hours, she was more than ready to sit down.

"Care for coffee, or tea, while you wait for supper?"

"Tea would be lovely, Monsieur. Shall I take it in the kitchen?"

"No, no, stay where you are. I shall bring it to you." He vanished into an adjoining room, and shut the door. She frowned. Did making tea require privacy, nowadays?

A gust of wind from an unidentified source swept through the room, sending shivers up her spine. She crossed her arms over her stomach, hands grasping at her elbows. Why did she suddenly feel so—

"Christine..."

One hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream. Had she truly heard that terrible, beautiful voice? Surely not. Surely it was impossible.

And yet, her curiosity got the better of her. As quietly as she could manage, to avoid sounding like a lunatic should she be mistaken, she called out, "Erik?"

Her eyes found it before her mind recognized it. A glimmering spot of white amidst a sea of inky shadows, off in the farthest corner of the room. It retreated, down the hallway, and that voice floated out to her to wrap around her senses. A quiet song, in French, that needled its way into the very fibers of her existence and tugged with undeniable persistence. Without a choice left to her, she rose and followed it.

* * *

He could not believe it, when she came into the house. He had expected Henri to show up fruitless; he had not dared hope that it was even truly his Christine. But Henri had brought her in, sat her down, and vanished into the kitchen. He had called her, and she had answered. She had used his name! Even to hear those simple syllables falling from her lips had been enough to nearly drive him to his knees. He had sung for her, though, and she had followed him—God, she followed him!

He retreated into his bedroom, and still she followed. When he stepped out of view, behind the door, he heard her steps falter... but then her curiosity got the better of her, as it always had, and she continued into his room.

He stopped his song at the same moment that he shut the door behind her. She yelped, and spun around, eyes searching the darkness in vain. He reached out one hand, fingertip just barely grazing her ear lobe. She whimpered, and stepped away from him, though she could not very well evade him when she could not see anything at all.

"Please, Erik. I am frightened... Can you not turn on a light?" He heard the pitiful tremble of fear in her voice, and was helpless to deny it. He moved to the corner, and cut on a lamp. Immediately, the shadows fell back from the room. It was a simple room, with a simple bed, and a simple chest-of-drawers. He was not one to live in finery—or at least, not one to sleep in it.

Christine turned to look at him, and her hands flew to press against her mouth again. She looked as if she were going to cry. He looked down at the floor, shame suddenly flooding through him. What had he done? He had meant to leave her forever in peace, and now he had ruined any hope she had ever had of leading a happy life.

"I thought you were dead!" she declared, one foot stomping into the floor. "Why would you fool me like that, Erik? How could you be so cruel, to let me bury some rotting corpse, and then come back to haunt me afterwards?" Tears were now spilling down her cheeks. He took a step towards her, but just as his leg moved forwards, so did hers move backwards. He stopped, and she stood regarding him warily.

"I am sorry. I thought to.. I did not intend to.. I saw you, in the window, and I.."

Her hand came up to collide roughly with his left cheek. He raised a hand to touch the stinging surface of his cheek, and turned angry eyes on her vehement little figure.

"Who did I bury, next to your well? On whose finger did I place my ring—_your _ring? Over whose body did I spill mindless tears? For whose sake did I slave away on digging a grave? For whose sake did I submit myself to terror-filled days in those awful sewers?"

He shook his head, turning his body away from her. She reached out and pressed against his shoulder, trying in vain to turn him back towards her. "Who, Erik? Who, if not you?"

"Just a stagehand," he managed after a moment. "A stagehand, who died of too much drink. I found him one night, and took his corpse."

A single cry escaped, before her hand cut off its departure from her lips. She stood regarding him with horror for a long moment, before continuing her tirade. "Just a stagehand, wearing your mask? A man with family, who will never know what happened to his body?" She was backing away from him again. "Oh, Erik, how could you?"

He advanced on her. She had hit the door; she could not back away from him any further. He stepped close to her, hands catching her face and holding it gently. "But I did it for you!" he cried, in his own defense. "I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to think me dead and buried! I wanted you to live, content, and forget me!"

Her hands closed around his wrists, but they did not tug his hands away. "Erik, you cannot want me to think you dead and to know you alive at the same time." She looked down, her long lashes batting against tears. "You stole me away again, Erik, just like all those years ago, in Paris. Will you keep me here again, Erik?"

His heart thudded uncomfortably against his breastbone. How could she ask such a thing? "No, of course not..." He had seen the ring on her finger; she was obviously quite content, with her viscount. He could not steal her away from life again... "Oh, Christine!" He sagged against her, head dropping onto her shoulder. Timorously, her hands migrated to rest on his shoulder blades, petting his back softly. He could feel the rigidity of fear in her body, but he ignored it, told himself it was not fear that kept her so tense. For just a moment, he wanted to believe himself loved again.

"Stay with me?" he whispered.

"For a little while," she answered, her head nodding. "For a little while."

* * *

Christine awoke to a gentle shaking. She opened her eyes, and found herself quite firmly entrapped in Erik's arms. He had coaxed her to the bed, had laid down beside her—both of them still fully clothed—and had settled against her, arms enfolding her with a desperation she had never imagined a human being could feel. They had fallen asleep there, him weeping pitifully, and her trying her best to calm him. She had removed his mask; she knew as well as he did that when he cried, if he left his mask on, it agitated his skin.

"Madam, wake up..."

She turned her head, to find Henri bent over her. Erik's head was buried against her chest; his breathing suggested that he was sleeping soundly. That terrible right side was pressed against her, and though her heart swelled with compassion, her skin could not help but crawl at the prospect of being in such close and steady contact with that horrific flesh.

She gently pried his arms from around her waist, and eased out of the bed. He immediately settled into the warm spot she had abandoned. Despite herself, she sat next to him on the bed, shielding his face from Henri's view. She did not know if the boy had seen his face or not, but she would not be the one to allow Henri his first eyeful. She glanced behind her to see Henri with his back respectfully turned; she bent and pressed a feather-light kiss to Erik's temple, and then stood and followed Henri out into the sitting room.

"You should leave now, Madam," the boy whispered. "He will awaken soon."

She nodded, and kissed the boy's cheek. "Thank you," she mouthed; not even a whisper would she risk, for she knew her voice, more than any other thing, could awaken Erik.

Christine retrieved the few things she had discarded near her little chair, and exited the little apartment with Henri on her heels. He saw her down to the street, and helped her into a carriage. Coins were handed her, to supply her with transportation to Raoul's sister's house. The first grey light of dawn was beginning to grace the streets.

"Madam, we are going to Africa," he said, as he came to stand near her again. "I.. think that he would not have had me fetch you, if we were not. It is hard, I think, for him to say goodbye to Europe."

"Do you know, then, what passed between us?" she asked, with a slight flush of her cheeks.

Henri looked at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "I know only that he loved—no, loves—you, Madam, and that he dreams of you every night."

She shivered, and nodded. As the carriage lurched to a steady roll, she leaned out of the window and waved a hand to Henri. "Take care of him for me!" she called, before settling back into her seat. She could not decide whether to weep for joy at not being held captive.. or for misery, at Erik's pitiful fate.

* * *

Henri watched the carriage until it was out of sight, and then turned and made the weary trek back to the apartment. He moved to the kitchen, and began to boil water for coffee. Erik would need it this morning more than he ever had before.

A slight noise caused Henri to turn—and there, in the doorway to the kitchen, stood a haggard Erik. One hand covered the right side of his face, as the other tried desperately to dash away tears. His voice, usually so smooth and angelic, was rough this morning with the weariness that comes from prolonged weeping.

"Alright," he said finally. "We.. will go to Africa. But on one condition."

Henri's stomach tensed.

Erik gave a sad smirk, and looked over his shoulder towards his bedroom. "Help me find my mask?"


	5. The Dark Continent

The Dark Continent

_I do not believe I would have agreed to go to Africa, if it had not been for Christine. She had been my reason for staying, but after our encounter, after spending the night wrapped in those divine arms, I was forced to realize that it was ridiculous, hoping to see her again when I could quite obviously never win her affection. I had possessed that chance, once, and had lost it. It was high time to abandon hope and descend into the nightmare that was the rest of my life. _

_While it would please me to be able to take credit, I must admit that it was Henri who came up with the story that permitted me something of a life in the public eye in Africa. We would say, he decided, that I was an eccentric and somewhat vain Frenchman—and, he would add rather snottily, that was not the part that required imagination—who had been mauled by a lion, and chose to wear a mask rather than subject society to my horrendous scars. _

_The rumors were easily spread; Henri had no small amount of experience in moving amongst the gossip circles of servants. They are, he tells me, easily intrigued and easily duped. I quite steadfastly refuse to take credit for those words, either, but that is less in favor of honesty, and more in favor of avoiding any kind of household melodrama. _

_The plantation that had been promised was much more than Bradbury had led us to believe. It was the kind of house that I would have hoped to purchase for us in another few years. Henri was, needless to say, thrilled..._

_-O.G. _

It was hot, beneath the heavy cloak that enshrouded Erik's figure. Even in the night, this land seemed to swelter at unbelievable temperatures. The carriage came to a halt, and the carriage door swung open. A fussy man, much smaller than Erik or even Henri, gestured for the two within the carriage to come out. Henri climbed out first, bearing two of many luggage cases. Erik followed, making an imposing figure indeed in his dark clothing, with the hood wrapped tightly around his face. The tiny man gawked up at him for the slightest of moments, before regaining composure and shutting the carriage door.

"My horse, a white stallion. He was to be—"

"Yes, yes, Monsieur, he arrived this morning. A _fine_ animal, if I do say so myself."

Erik moved onward, following Henri. The boy had been here for a few weeks, ensuring that most of Erik's things were properly settled in, and that the house was made ready, and had then returned to London to fetch Erik and Erik's personal effects. As the tiny man fell behind, Erik moved up close to Henri.

"Monsieur?" he questioned.

Henri smiled, and nodded. "They heard you were French, and thought it would be best to refer to you with a French title."

Erik's lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "Is it wise, to flaunt that I am French in such an English-dominant town?"

Henri merely laughed, and led Erik into the house.

It was a grand thing—the foyer alone revealed that. It was, of course, nowhere near the grandeur of the opera house, but Erik imagined with no small amount of personal joy that the house rivaled that of the viscount's.

"Your suite of rooms is on the third floor." A pause. "Well, actually, your suite of rooms _is _the third floor. I arranged it so that you would have the entire thing to yourself. The staff will, of course, come and go, but—"

"Where will you be staying?"

A knowing smile, and the boy patted Erik's shoulder. "I'll be on the second floor, the rooms next to the stairwell. If you need me, I'll be but a moment away."

Erik relaxed visibly, and turned his eyes to the somewhat intimidating staircase. _I hope we are not still living here when I get on in my years_, he thought, with something of a wry smile to accompany it. How would he ever navigate to the third floor, in his twilight years?

"I'll show you to your rooms." The two suitcases were set on the floor; two servants immediately rushed forward to attend to them. Henri instructed them to see about the rest of the luggage as well, and then started up the staircase slightly in front of Erik.

And Erik, of course, followed. He was beginning to feel like something of a dog, these past few days. Anywhere Henri directed him, he went; and anywhere Henri told him to stay, he stayed. "Which one of us is the master of the house, again?" he muttered under his breath.

"Hm?" Henri asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

The stairwell that led to Erik's floor was locked securely. Henri paused to unlock it, and then handed the key to Erik. "I have a copy," he assured him, "but I will not, of course, use it without your permission."

Erik nodded, and allowed himself to be led once more, up a slightly narrower staircase. Lamps perched on either wall every few feet, illuminating their progress. "This staircase seems too long," he commented. Henri replied with a mischievous smile.

When they gained the top, Erik stood on a balcony, looking down half a story at an expansive library. Rich reds and golds colored the room. A large oak desk, fine-quality office chairs and slightly more decorative sitting chairs occupied the room, aside from the book shelves that lined the walls.

"Your mouth is open," Henri said mildly. Erik's teeth clicked together as his mouth was shut. Henri chuckled, and turned to walk down the gradual, curving staircase to the left; there was an identical one, on the right. "The other rooms branch off of this one. The door on the west is the hallway leading to a bedroom, and a small study. There's a dry sink—they haven't got any running water, yet, as you may or may not know. The door to the east is a drawing room; large windows, airy paintings, and other such happy things. It's got a few other things in it, for you to occupy yourself with. It looks out over the main entryway of the plantation."

"You know I don't like light."

Henri sighed, and gave him a stern look. "There are curtains, of course... but I do wish you would at least _try_ to enjoy the view."

"At night, perhaps," Erik said, as he stripped of the suffocating black mass and draped it across a chair. "What of the door to the north?"

Henri did not answer; the corner of the oak desk was suddenly very interesting.

"Henri?" Erik was beginning to think he did not want to hear the answer, but his curiosity would not be denied.

The boy sucked in a breath, let it out, and sucked it another. The words came tumbling from his lips, flavored with the third-class accent that Erik had thought he had rid the boy of.

"I'm sorry, but I heard the rumors—everyone was talking about it in London, all the time, especially at the theatre—and you always wanted me to go to the theatre—and they used to whisper about it and make jokes and then when Christine came, I knew, because I'd heard the story so many times that I could practically visualize her already, and she looked exactly like they'd said, and when you two were together and I heard you fighting and she said that—"

Erik held up a hand, and the boy stumbled into silence. With a weary heart, Erik asked, "What is in the room, Henri?"

The boy, white as a sheet, turned and walked to the northern-most door. He slid the doors open, and struck a match. Candles were lit, and then he retreated from the room. Erik took a deep breath, and stepped in.

It was similar to the moment just before sleep, when one is nearly in the world of dreams, but still has one toe in the door of consciousness, and the sensation of falling tricks one into snapping oneself into wakefulness again. The sensation was fuzzy, dim, almost unidentifiable, until suddenly it occurred to him that he felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath his feet. A jolt, and the floor came slamming back up against the soles of his feet, leaving his senses reeling.

The room was dark, lit only by candles. No windows, even, to supply a finger of light from behind their curtains. Directly in front of him was a giant pipe organ, with candelabras situated perfectly along its back. To his left sat a grand piano, with candles on the walls to either side of its bench. To the right was a music stand, with a violin case beside it.

"Turn around," Henri murmured softly.

Erik took several steps into the room, and then turned. Henri gestured towards the ceiling; Erik raised his head to look above the door. There, in a painting as large as the piano, was the Opéra Populaire, as seen from the Rue Scribe. Erik's breath caught in his throat, and he fell back onto the organ bench. He lowered his face into his hands, and fought desperately to choke back his sobs—to no avail, however.

Henri rushed forward, kneeling beside the bench and placing his hand on Erik's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I thought you would... I thought it..."

Erik nodded, and Henri fell silent. "I know... I know you meant only good, and.. perhaps it is a good thing. Perhaps I was never meant to escape it. Perhaps it is fitting, that I should be entrapped by its memories for an eternity."

Erik wept, and Henri sat awkwardly at his side, with that one hand placed on his shoulder.

* * *

"How can he not like tea?" An exasperated sigh; flour puffed up into the air as she slammed her hands down on the counter. 

Henri scrubbed his face mercilessly with his hands, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter how he manages it. The point is that he doesn't."

"But _how can he not like tea?_" The woman, his head cook, fixed him with a deadly glare. "Everyone likes tea."

Henri migrated to the cupboards, and withdrew the good brandy he had hidden in the back corner. He ignored the looks of disapproval he was receiving from the cook, and poured what was probably much more than a healthy amount into a glass. He threw his head back, downed it all in one swallow, and poured another just like it.

"The Master is not everyone."

She snatched his second glass out of his hands, and tossed its contents down the kitchen drain.

"Hey!" He lunged towards it, as if he could stop it. "That was good brandy..."

"How do you expect to keep the run of things around here if you're drunk? Hm?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, and glared sulkily down at his shoes. "I wasn't going to get drunk, madam."

"Oh, you weren't?"

"No."

She rolled her eyes, and began packing away the brandy. She slipped it into the folds of her skirt, and moved back to the bread dough on the counter. She was a thick woman, old enough to be Henri's mother—a young mother, but his mother nonetheless. Grey hairs peeked from beneath the cap she wore, and something about that simple detail endeared his heart to her.

Henri dropped down onto one of the stools positioned around the island, and dropped his arms onto the counter. He allowed his head to lower down onto his forearms.

"Oh, sit up, lad. You're a man of authority now. You've got to look the part."

He groaned, and scrubbed his face on his arms. "Don't want to."

He felt firm hands gripping his face, and slowly pressing him into an upright position. "The Master expects his butler to be on top of things, lad."

Henri looked up into her dark face, and snorted a bit of laughter through his nose. "Yes, I suppose you are right."

"O' course I'm right," she cried, before turning back to the dough with a slight smile. "Now, quickly, before others come in. What's the matter with you?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug, and his head shook back and forth. "I can't say."

He heard a patient sigh, and could almost feel her look of sympathy—but, when he glanced up, he found her to be, for all appearances, absorbed in her work. "So, then," she said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "what does your master like, for eating—and what in the name of God am I to give him to drink with it, if not tea?"

* * *

The first few nights of Erik's presence in the house were long ones; for nearly a week, Henri had very little rest, and what he did get was no more than briefly-snatched naps upon the small love-seat in Erik's library, while awaiting further commands. It was not that Erik was unfair—quite the contrary, he often begged Henri to go to sleep. His loyalty was that which surpassed even the desire to sleep, however, and he could not bring himself to leave Erik, when he knew that the man needed his aid. 

When they had moved to the apartment in London, very little had needed doing, after their belongings had been situated. Erik had not been particularly distraught over anything; by that time, he had recovered enough from his opera-house days that he knew how to shove his emotions into some tiny, secret box, and put on the best of faces for Henri. However, having to leave Europe completely, and being spurred to do so by the less than ideal treatment by Christine—all of which was made worse by the shock of what Henri had hoped would be a pleasure—had left him in a terrible state of emotional weakness, and Henri knew how to do nothing other than complete his every wish and whim.

Erik soon learned not to make passing comments in front of Henri; if he even breathed the slightest note of disapproval, Henri went to extremes to mend it. In one of their more quiet moments, as Henri sat dozing off and Erik read a book, the latter made the mistake of mentioning a dislike of the curtains in his bedroom. His complaint was a valid one; it was not that he so minded the aesthetic aspect of them, for he was not one to quip about appearances—naturally—but, rather, they were a little too light, and somewhere in his room there was a draft. He was not complaining about the draft, either, he explained, for the draft kept it from getting too stuffy in his room, and thus did he rather like it. However—and this was the point he was trying to make—the draft stirred the curtains, because they were so light, and would often allow large slivers of light into the room—and, as silly as it may be, he could not sleep when there was light in the room.

When he awoke the next evening—he slept during the daytime hours—there were new curtains hanging across his window, securely hung, overlarge for their windows, and almost too heavy for Erik to draw back. When he inquired as to their inexplicable presence, Henri lightly replied that he had put them there, with no help at all—this was not said in a bragging tone, but rather slipped out, for Henri's tongue tended to become loose when he had not slept much.

Things did, eventually, settle down with Erik, and Henri received several good nights of rest, before being again launched into lunacy, by the superstitious nature of the staff. It was largely African—there were one or two white servants, who aided Henri in overseeing the Africans, but that was it. As Henri had been told, the blacks were terribly absurd and backwards in their thinking; news of the master sleeping during the day was enough to drive them to suspicion. When more than one maid returned from cleaning the floor with tales of hearing an unearthly music pouring forth from the north room, it was enough to convince the entire staff that their master was some sort of demon.

And, of course, once your staff suspects you, you are watched with an intensity that the greatest of Napoleon's spies could never imagine accomplishing. It was not long before several of the staff had seen, in windows, or shadows, or even dreams, the half-masked face. This was not special on its own, for the rumors had already been installed about the lion mauling; however, it was always reported that, within that mask, there were eyes of flame, and that the lips could part and, from that ghastly mouth, could pour forth a music that could only have belonged to one who had sold his soul to Satan himself.

Henri had the aid of the cook, in dispelling these foolish rumors, and without her he very probably would not have convinced anyone of anything. After all, he spent a large portion of his time on the Master's floor, and had, of course, arrived with the Master—thus, did it not make sense to assume that he was in league with the Master and his evils?

Fearing an uprising, or at least a more obvious attempt at catching glimpses of Erik, Henri began persuading him to take his dinner downstairs. And then, his lunches, for Henri was trying very hard to place him on the cycle of a normal person, rather than this nocturnal nonsense. When Erik was comfortable eating a late breakfast down in the kitchen—which took nearly three months to accomplish—Henri felt rather proud of himself. It was not, however, until Erik had been swayed to venture out into the sunlight that Henri felt he could have died happily.

Naturally, it took nearly six months before he could get Erik to go fully into the light, but it was made easier by constant mentions of César, and how he so missed Erik's steadying hand. Small visits to the stable were the beginnings; Erik would nearly rush from the shelter of the front doorstep to the stable, and from there into the gloom of César's stall—he refused to allow lights, while he was within. He said the hazy air appeased him, and the smell of the hay nearly wooed him into sleep; it was not at all difficult to convince him to spend more time there.

Henri—or rather Cook, by way of Henri's behest—enlisted the help of some of the grooms, for their next planned conquest of Erik's nature. It started with a simple murmur, but quite soon each and every stable hand that passed by was mentioning it, and the stable-master would even pause by César's door and have long talks with Erik about it.

"Lovely morning today, Monsieur," the man would say. The French word sounded clumsy on his thick tongue, and Henri had almost literally seen Erik wince when some of the servants spoke it.

However, Erik would move to be on the opposite side of César from the door, and then steadily reply, "Yes, it is," in tones so quiet as to be nearly indiscernible.

The man, with a name that Henri had long given up pronouncing—and thus, had begun to be called "Jim", for Henri had always been partial to that name—would lean his arms on César's stall door, and smile at the stallion for a long time, before speaking again. "It's a shame," he would say quietly—as if Erik were not intended to hear it.

There would follow a tense moment of silence, before with a slightly offended note he would ask, "What is?" Henri imagined he thought his ownership of the stallion was being challenged.

"Well, look at 'im, Monsieur." Another wince. "He's not nearly as sleek, and muscular, as he was when he got here. He's getting fat, from sitting around all day."

"Someone should ride him, then," Erik would suggest quietly.

"Well, we would, Monsieur—" The wince was less pronounced this time; it always was, when Erik had heard it a few times in the span of minutes. "—but no one can really handle him. The bo—" There was an awkward pause. "Mister Henri, he says that you handle him beautifully, that he'll do anything you ask."

Another silence would follow, in which Henri—who was listening from a few stalls down, while Erik believed him to be attending to duties within the house—was unsure whether Erik was offended, or pleased. When he spoke, Henri was near certain it was the latter. "He is not too hard to handle." It was a humble offering, an attempt to push attention away from himself. Erik was still unsure how to interact with the servants; while he easily took command over Henri, he did not like to do so with the Africans, and was slow to allow them to speak to him as if he were their superior.

"Oh, no, Monsieur—" There was almost no wince, now. "—that's not at all true. I've put some of my best boys on that horse, and we can barely get him to walk in a circle for us!"

This was, of course, a slight exaggeration; Jim had tried one boy, and he had not been a particularly talented boy, and César had only misbehaved mildly. Of course, Jim had ridden him a few times with no trouble whatsoever, and Henri had even found the time to indulge himself, once. The problem was not that César was any real trouble, but that no one really had the time to pay him. There were other horses in the barn, kept for various occasions, and exercising César—who required quite a lot of exercise—was just not at all reasonable.

Erik did not really reply to the man, though Henri could almost feel his interest hovering, thick, in the air. He knew as well as Erik did that the Opera Ghost longed for an excursion into the plantation and its surrounding properties, on the back of his trusted equine partner. César was getting no younger—and, truly, neither was Erik—and Henri's best guess at why Erik had avoided it was merely his distaste for open air, which Henri was slowly ridding him of.

Henri, really, was not quite positive how Erik had developed it. He knew that the man had not always lived beneath the opera-house—after his own revelation as to who Erik was had surfaced, his master had begun handing him little tidbits of his past, slowly retelling his life's tale, though Henri was not quite sure his heart could bear it. The best Henri could guess was that all his time beneath the opera-house had forced him to forget the pleasures of sunlight, or perhaps that the light was associated too closely with Christine, and thus was an uncomfortable indulgence.

"Well, Monsieur, I did not mean to intrude. Take your time with him; he always is happier after one of your visits." The big man patted his hand on the top of the door, and walked away. When he moved past the stall Henri was lingering in, he glanced at it and flashed a yellow, gap-toothed grin.

It was only a few days afterwards that Erik broached the subject to Henri. They were seated in his library, Henri once again sprawled on the small love-seat, Erik pacing back and forth in front of one of the shelves. Henri knew he was slowly working his way through the library, moving by way of alphabetical order; most of the books were about Africa, various works on hunting and conquering the Dark Continent. There were others, scattered throughout. Henri had found that Erik had a taste, every now and then, for totally pointless fiction, and quite thoroughly enjoyed poetry.

Henri also knew, for a fact—and intended to use it against him one day—that Erik had cheated, in his alphabetical-order plan, and read one of the Whittier collections.

"Is César truly in need of work?"

Henri started, and looked at Erik for a long time. The older man had a pained expression, as if he were thinking about something that was truly uncomfortable. The panicked thought occurred to Henri that Erik may be thinking of selling the stallion.

Cautiously, he answered, "So I've been told..."

Erik nodded, and paced for another moment, before turning to face Henri. A deep, nervous breath was taken. "Would you ride with me?"

Silence yawned, as Henri's mind tried hard to grasp what he had been asked. "You mean.. now?"

"No, no, of course not."

Henri relaxed, some.

"I'd like to wait until it was dark."

The relaxation was immediately sucked away from him, and he was left floundering in mild horror. Africa, at night? Alone? He shivered. Had the man not been reading the horror stories of man-eaters and other terrors of the continent? "Are you.. sure?"

Erik sagged, and shook his head. "No, I am not, but the man... What is his name?"

Henri laughed. "I've been calling him Jim. I've no idea how to say his real name, but he doesn't seem to mind it."

A nod, and a slight chuckle. "He had best not; he cannot say 'Monsieur' any better than I can say..." Erik floundered. Henri doubted there was much at all that Erik could not say, but he merely nodded to prod Erik along. Another nod, and a shrug, and the man continued. "He said—Jim said—that César needed work, and that.. no one was able to ride him."

Henri could tell he felt uncomfortable; Erik seemed very afraid of sounding as if he were bragging of any of his talents, unless that talent were singing. Erik had no qualms whatsoever, of speaking of his singing in gracious tones, but Henri could no more blame him for that than he could blame him for being reclusive. "Yes, that was the truth; he refuses to obey anyone's hand, but yours."

Erik nodded, and resumed pacing. "Is night.. not a good time to ride?"

"No, no it is not."

He sighed. "When is a good time, then?"

Henri hesitated, and glanced at his wristwatch. "Tomorrow.. before breakfast, perhaps?"

Erik's eyebrow shot up in the air. "That is rather early, don't you think?"

"Only for you, Erik." He grinned, and then continued. "Besides, it will be a good time—late enough that there will be light, but early enough that the heat will not yet be too dreadful."

A long moment of thought followed, and then more nodding. "Yes, yes, I suppose you are right." The man granted him a grateful look, before moving to the book he had left sitting in his usual chair, lifting it, and then seating himself. He seemed very much pleased, to have removed himself of that burden.

Henri found himself smiling affectionately, as he allowed his eyes to slip shut again.

* * *

Erik looked for a long while at himself in the mirror. It was a full-length mirror, one that he had never before imagined bearing to look at himself in. He had always avoided mirrors, and he had at first been mortified when he had discovered this one hanging in his bedroom. He had seriously considered asking Henri to remove it—this was an improvement from his original reaction to it, which was to smash it into one thousand pieces—but had slowly begun to appreciate being able to observe his clothing. It was not that he was particularly vain, but it was much easier than craning one's neck in awkward directions, trying to ensure that no embarrassing mistakes had been made. 

This particular set of clothing, he was not sure he had a liking for. The riding trousers were uncomfortable, and the shirt and jacket seemed as if they would have him sweating before he even set foot out of the door. He sighed resignedly. Henri had insisted this was what gentlemen wore while riding, and thus would Erik wear it as well. The tall boots were retrieved and pulled on, and a comb employed to sweep his hair back from his face. He did not intend to wear a riding hat; it was too hot. Henri also insisted that hats kept one cooler, in this country, but Erik paid him no heed.

He moved to the window, and drew back the curtains. The world was foggy this morn, and clouds hovered in the sky besides. It was lucky; he did not care to ride beneath the intense light that he had glimpsed only briefly. He could not imagine existing beneath it for more than a few seconds.

He heard Henri moving about within the library, and moved to meet him. He had applied an extra coating of adhesive to the inside surface of his mask, for fear that the stress of riding would tempt it to fall. Henri was standing near his desk, surreptitiously eyeing the papers lying there. Erik cleared his throat, and Henri near leapt into the air, trying to clear the desk and look as if he had been observing other things. With a frighteningly innocent air, the boy smiled.

"Ready?"

Erik looked at him for a long moment in silence, allowing him to grow uncomfortable, before pointedly moving to the desk, stacking the papers, and putting them within a drawer. A key was drawn out, and the drawer locked, before Erik nodded. "Yes, quite ready."

They went down to the stables, and received a greeting from Jim and several of his grooms. It was all Erik could do not to squirm beneath their gazes. César was already saddled and waiting, as was Henri's mount—a lovely bay gelding, nearly as tall as César, but not nearly as thick. He was a wiry horse, built more for speed than strength and elegance.

The two men mounted, and Henri took a slight lead as they trotted down a lane. César was difficult; through the small, forward-seat saddle, Erik could feel his muscles corded and bunched, as he tried valiantly to obey his rider's command to remain in a steady trot. Naturally, he desired nothing more than to burst forward into a gallop, overtake the courser—which could probably only be accomplished if the bay were held back—and allow his legs to fully stretch. Instead, however, he did several dance-steps that Erik was not sure he could get the horse to repeat if he tried.

After what Erik approximated to be fifteen minutes of steady trotting, César was cooling down. After being so long out of work, the horse could not expect to go for very long without tiring. Erik pressed him onward, however, sucking every last drop of volatile energy out of him, before calling to Henri that the stallion needed to walk. César immediately dropped his head, stretching it low and forcing the reins out of Erik's hand.

They walked until the stallion had regained his breath—the courser seemed to have no trouble keeping up the pace, and even seemed eager to up it a bit—and then turned and upheld a steady trot all the way back to the stables. It was a short ride, but neither Erik nor César were up to much—yet. As Erik untacked and rubbed down the horse—he insisted on doing it himself—he murmured praise and happiness with the horse's behavior. The stallion flicked a lazy ear in his direction, and listened patiently. On his way out, Erik paused near his head, and set a hand to the thick muscle just behind his poll. "I will come back soon, and often," he promised, and the horse rolled an eye at him.

Erik wondered whether the stallion was pleased, or affronted.

* * *

_"As Henri had been told,** the blacks were terribly absurd and backwards in their thinking**; news of the master sleeping during the day was enough to drive them to suspicion."__ No offense intended; trying to capture the mindset of the day. _


	6. The Visitors

_—A/N—_

_I know a lot of this has been from Henri's viewpoint lately, but I promise that's going to change soon! A lot of it just makes more sense, when seen outside of Erik's mind. I promise the next chapter will be chock-full of Erik-ness._

_—_

_Updated chapter. I added in some details, and some dialogue, that will hopefully make things clearer, and deepen some of the relationships._

* * *

Visitors

_Henri's insistence that I act more like a normal person was, though I complained often, appreciated. Not only was the act proof of his feelings towards me—that he was, indeed, a friend and not just an employee; and, that he did indeed wish for my life to be happier—but also I benefited from it. As much as I disliked the light, I found that I enjoyed being amongst the other servants of the household, despite dreading any actual conversation with them—the idea of treating them like servants somehow appalled me. I do think that they came to like me, in some way, because they were always kind, and never again did I hear Henri complaining of the circulation of odd rumors._

_My excursions with César grew in number, though always we refined it to the grey, early morning light. Henri was not always able to accompany us on his bay, but César soon learned to enjoy solitary rides as well, and his—and my—health and fitness improved rapidly. And, though it shocked me to see it, I soon began to see a bit of coloring on my skin. _

_That Henri had nearly read these memoirs frightened me. I did not wish for him to see the troubled thoughts of my mind, and neither did I wish for him to know the whole and terrible truth of my days at the opera-house. I tried very hard, after that day, to keep them firmly under lock whenever I was not writing them. Still, I have my suspicions that he saw more of them than I would ever know. _

_-O.G._

"Sir?"

Henri glanced up from his documents, one hand rubbing his eyes wearily. He had been working on Erik's accounts for nearly an hour... He glanced down at his wristwatch, and nearly cried out. Not an hour, but nine! Trembling hands placed the papers in their drawer at his desk, and he stood.

The servant gave a slight bow—they treated him, he had found, with nearly as much respect as they gave to Erik himself—and then straightened, his eyes cast downward in shame. "I am afraid, sir, that there are people here. I tried to turn them away, but they would not have it. They insisted upon seeing you, and the Master."

Henri frowned. They knew no one in this country—at least, not intimately. Henri was, of course, familiar with several of the businessmen that he dealt with on a day-to-day basis, but none of them had ever shown any interest in being more than business partners. "Who is it, that is calling?" he asked, as he moved around the desk and towards the door.

"A woman, two girls, and a gentleman. The gentleman claims to be an associate of yours. He says the woman is his great-aunt, one girl her daughter, and the other a relation who lives with the family."

Henri sighed; that had been more information than he cared to know, and yet had been sorely lacking in one particular piece of knowledge: a name. "Thank you," he said, before moving out to the foyer.

"Ah, Henri!" cried the gentleman, moving towards him with raised hands. "So lovely to see you!"

He was an older man, and Henri admitted that he looked somewhat familiar, but Henri was rather sure that everyone would look both familiar and strange, in this particular mind-haze that he found himself in. As the man moved closer and grasped his hand to shake it, his name occurred to Henri, who immediately broke into a grin.

"Ah, Lord Pembroke! What a truly extraordinary surprise!"

The old man chuckled, and then stepped aside to introduce the three women. The eldest was above Pembroke's age, nearly too old to be traveling in such circles as were found in Africa. She was introduced as Mrs. Lyle. The elder of the two girls was a Miss Mary Lyle, who looked to be somewhere in the range of seven and twenty. Henri found it odd, that she was still single at such an age, but of course said nothing. She was an attractive woman, though getting on in years; her skin was fair, as was her hair, and her eyes were a lovely milky-blue.

The third girl, he was then told, was an orphaned relative, who they had taken on merely in good graces. Henri was not sure that it was so good, if you spoke about it, but—again, of course—said nothing. She was only nearing sixteen years, at the most, and looked the part of a young lady just coming into bloom. Her skin was tanned crisply; obviously, she spent time out-of-doors, and he had only just assumed as much when he was told rather archly that she spent more time with Lord Pembroke, hunting, than she did with the women. She had dark hair, and dark eyes to match; for a brief, unsettling moment, an image of Christine flashed through Henri's mind. She did not look near dainty enough, however, for the image to last, and Henri relaxed—some.

"The Master is in the stables, currently; shall I take you to the parlor, and see to some refreshments? And then, I shall see about bringing him within."

"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Lyle, as she bustled along at his side as he led them to the parlor. It was a small room, bearing a few comfortable chairs and love-seats, and a small piano. Henri had not had the piano placed there; the family that had resided here, prior to Erik's arrival, had apparently entertained guests in this little room.

"Excuse me," said Henri, after they had settled in, "and I shall attend to things." He smiled, and exited the room. Conveniently, the kitchen was in the same direction as the back way to the stables; he moved through quickly, snapping at a lounging maid to bring their guests tea and biscuits, before continuing on to the stables.

"Jim," he called, when he saw the man bent over a horse; he realized too late that the man was shoeing. Before he could be reproached for interrupting, he called out, "Never mind!" and continued on to César's stall. He found Erik there, just finishing grooming César; Erik had, since taking an interest in riding, begun to demand that the white horse was kept immaculate—and, when he had heard grooms complaining about the impossibility of keeping a white horse clean, had begun to attend to the matter himself.

Henri leaned over the stall door, and watched the man move for a moment. He had stripped of all but a white cotton shirt, his riding breeches, and his boots, and was sweating profusely as he dropped one of his brushes into the grooming box. Henri noted, with some amusement, that the box was not kept nearly as immaculate as the horse for which it was employed.

"Erik?" he said softly.

Despite the quiet tone, the man jerked his head around, surprise written all over his features. Henri got the feeling that Erik was not used to being surprised, and wondered just what Erik had been so absorbed in.

"We've visitors, in the house," Henri said easily, trying to appear as if he had not noticed the surprise.

Erik nodded, and lifted the grooming box. "I know; I heard them, when their horses were brought in."

"They rode?"

"Two of them did—I assume there are two men, accompanying those two fussing women? They were in a buggy, and throwing a fit about the way Jim hauled their mares down to the other end of the stable."

"Ah." Henri stepped aside, as Erik moved into the aisle and down to the tack room, and set the box away.

"I assume they're in the parlor?"

Henri nodded, but cast a dark look at Erik's attire. "You'll need to change..."

Erik waved a hand at him. "I know, I know—I did not intend to see them like this."

Henri nodded again. "Good. I'll go and occupy them, while you change."

Erik made a grunt of acknowledgement, and headed towards the back door with Henri. He paused in the kitchen, to steal a freshly-baked pastry from Cook; Henri continued onward, shaking his head and grinning. The man could be surprisingly playful, when the mood struck him.

As he neared the parlor, his spirits fell. What he heard, he almost dared not believe. Someone was playing the piano, a pitiful rendition of some aria or another. But that was not what disturbed him.

He could hear Lord Pembroke making comments to Miss Lyle, about the music, but that was not what disturbed him either.

What disturbed him was the sound of painfully beautiful song, floating down the hall, in a voice beautiful enough to be Christine Daaé's—or, it was, according to the imagination of a Mister Henri Goodings, who had nothing but imagination to go on, having never actually heard Christine sing. He had frozen in his step, but now he rushed forward to the door, throwing it open and stumbling within. Hands waving, he near-yelled, "Stop! Stop! Hush!"

The music and song ceased, as all four of them looked at him with dumbfounded amazement. And then, his heart stopped, for their gazes swept past him and to the door, and both Mrs. and Miss Lyle gasped, and Lord Pembroke uttered a quiet, "Good Heavens..."

Henri did not have to turn around to know what they were looking at, and regardless, he nearly leapt out of his own skin when the soft purr of a voice reached his ears.

"Now, Henri," it crooned, wicked in its deceiving calm, "it is not very kind, to put a stop to such truly beautiful music."

"Oh, thank you," burst Mrs. Lyle, the tremble in her voice giving away her fear, "it is by—"

"I spoke neither of you, nor the music you played," Erik stated with an alarmingly neutral voice. "I spoke, rather, of your daughter's voice..."

Henri was rather afraid he was going to faint.

"Oh, she is not my _daughter_, sir," said Mrs. Lyle, with something of a note of absurdity, as if she felt it should have been very plain that the girl was no relation of her own. Henri realized, rather suddenly, that they had never introduced the girl by name.

"I do not think you should be so quick to denounce her," Erik said, as he moved forward into the room. Henri still had not gotten up the nerve to turn and look at him, but he could feel his presence like a dark, electricity-charged cloud; he had no question as to his exact location in the parlor.

Erik came into his peripheral view, and then continued forward to lift the girl's hand and press a light kiss to her knuckles. "My dear, you have a truly beautiful voice. Wherever did you learn?"

Henri glanced at Lord Pembroke, who was giving him the "Who is this man?" look. Henri nodded, and Pembroke's mouth dropped open for the slightest moment, as he came to realize that it was, indeed, the Master of the house.

The girl seemed lost for words for a moment; her mouth gaped as she looked at the man—mostly, at the mask. Mrs. Lyle poked her in the hip, and she stumbled into speech. "Nowhere, M-monsieur," she said quietly; apparently, she had grasped more easily that the dirty, sweaty man before her was the Master, and had recalled the knowledge that he was French. Henry could have kissed her; she said "Monsieur" almost more perfectly than the French themselves did.

Erik's solitary brow arched; Henri could not see it—he did not need to see it. "Nowhere, Mademoiselle? I find that difficult to believe."

Mrs. Lyle began to speak; Erik cut her off with a single look, and then returned his gaze to the girl, expecting an explanation. "M-my mother... She sang to me, when I was small. That is the closest to a formal training that I have ever received."

Erik looked at her for a moment, before realizing he still clutched her hand, and releasing it. He turned that hard gaze on Mrs. Lyle again. She squirmed beneath it, but did not take his hint; Henri lunged to the rescue.

"Mrs. Lyle, why do you not come and sit with me, and perhaps the Master will play a little for us? He is quite talented."

She looked at him for a moment, before understanding, and leaping from the piano bench as if it had burned her. She moved to quickly sit down in a chair; Henri tremulously took the one beside her, trying his best to keep his lips from moving with the silent prayers he was so earnestly making.

Erik seated himself elegantly, and allowed his fingers to hover over the keys. "Do you know.. the Jewel Song, from Faust?"

As the girl nodded her head eagerly, Henri's heart sank. He had heard the rumors in enough detail to know why Erik asked for that song—and to fear it.

Erik played, and the girl sang—she sang beautifully, it was without question, though Henri could see from the slowly increasing slope in Erik's shoulders that he was disappointed. Henri was relieved by that, however; if Erik had been pleased, it would have been a bad sign indeed.

When the girl was very nearly finished, Erik delved into some other song—presumably from Faust, though Henri did not know it well enough to have any true knowledge—and, without waiting for the girl to develop some sense of where he was, he began singing.

Henri had never truly heard him sing before; he had heard it a little, when Erik sang to Christine, but that had been muffled, and Erik had been more summoning her than singing to her. But now... Now, he understood why she had risen and followed him, despite having known who he was. Now he understood how the pitiful, disfigured man could have lured a woman down into the basements of an opera house; now, he understood everything. That voice was too angelic to be believable; it was as if a truly celestial being had swept down upon them, and graced them with its music. As he progressed through the song, Henri recognized it for the one that was sung by Faust to Marguerite, in one of the ending scenes—he thought.

Pain. The voice inspired pain, so resounding and complete that it was impossible to escape—and yet, hidden within, was some kind of elation. The high notes sent his spirit soaring towards the glory of heaven, while the low notes had him plummeting blindly and helplessly into the pits of hell, and the middle notes he coasted upon like a boat on smooth seas. It was, in a word, perfect.

When it ended, Henri felt lost. His senses groped blindly for something, anything, to anchor themselves to, and found Mrs. Lyle's hand gripped around his arm so firmly he felt the bone would shatter. He looked at her dumbly; she was sobbing. Her daughter, also, had covered her face, and was weeping rather loudly. The girl, however, stood looking at Erik with the same misty-eyed look Henri imagined Christine had turned on him; it was a quiet hunger, a failure to grasp what kind of glory could have come from such a man, mixed with an element of hypnosis. Tears graced her face as well, but there was something sophisticated, something superior about them that none of the others in the room could have grasped.

When finally Lord Pembroke's face was sought out, even his eyes were found to be glistening. One hand was pressed against his chest, and he looked as if he were trying very hard not to cry out.

Henri was not at all surprised to find that his own cheeks were wet with tears.

Erik stood, breaking the spell of the moment, and drifting towards the door. He paused there, and turned his head so that the bleak mask was faced towards the people in the parlor. His eyes were focused, most especially, on the girl. "You should stay," he told her, voice none the worse for wear, after such a song. "You, and your relatives. I would be honored, to teach you to sing."

And then, he left.

Pembroke leaned forward, looking at Henri with shock. "That is your Master?"

Henri nodded. "Monsieur Erik is truly.. a unique individual."

"Well, I don't see how a man such as he has managed to stay unwed!" declared Miss Lyle. Elizabeth cleared her throat softly to attempt hushing her relative, but the sound was drowned out by the laughter of Mrs. Lyle.

* * *

It was arranged that Mrs. Lyle, her daughter, and the girl—whose name was discovered to be a Miss Elizabeth Bryan—would move in for an untold amount of time, so that Elizabeth could tutor with Erik. They would not, in all probability, have agreed to the arrangement, except that Mrs. Lyle—according to Lord Pembroke—had hit a dry spot in her finances, and had been fearing she would not be able to afford much of anything for the girl. When she received not only an offer for Elizabeth to be tutored in song, but also in every other branch of academics, she was thrilled.

For, not only would she be educated more fully, but she would be living with a man who appeared to have absolutely no end to his money.

Elizabeth turned out to be a wonderful companion, for Erik. He also discovered in her a riding partner that was much more enthusiastic, and much more available, than was Henri—who was more than a little miffed, to find that the bay courser he was so fond of had been handed to Elizabeth, for her own use. And he could not but envy the girl for succeeding where he had nearly failed; with her as incentive, Erik had become very social, and had even begun to have as much sun on his visible skin as did any other healthy, active man. He had admitted to Henri that he felt much younger these days, which was a shock to Henri, for what had once been a solitary few silver threads at his temples had become nearly streaks, and the wrinkles on his face had become more pronounced. This had forced Henri to realize he was aging, and Henri had only managed to get over this epiphany, when Erik had confessed the renewed vigor of youth.

When they were not singing, he would retreat with her up to his floor—which was viewed as a terribly scandalous act, by Mrs. Lyle and her daughter, but of course _they _did not have the nerve to speak to him about it, and truly, neither did Henri. (They were comforted by half-truths of Henri often being with the two, acting as something of a chaperone, though in truth Erik expelled him from the floor as often as he allowed him to stay.) Within that library, they studied any great number of things; Erik professed that Elizabeth had made great improvements in her figures—which, he claimed, she had previously been sorely lacking in—as well as having developed a greater understanding for language and its use.

While not tutoring her, he would sit in silence and watch her draw—for, he had learned, she loved to draw, and thus had he immediately had Henri purchase for her an entire set of paper, pencils, and charcoal sticks—or would have her read to him. The presence of a woman was highly enjoyed by Erik, especially a woman who did not scorn him or turn him aside from her. She was, actually, very kind to him; she treated him as she would treat any other man, and often much better, even, than that.

It was after one of these evenings spent on his floor that Henri's promise of unquestioned privacy was broken. The women had been on the plantation for nearly a month, and Henri had quite nearly had enough of seeing Elizabeth only at meals, and on the rare occasion that they were in the parlor at the same time that Henri passed it—for, after all, Elizabeth saw only the library, of Erik's floor; he would not take her into his Opera room, as he referred to it.

Henri withdrew the key to Erik's floor, and quietly inserted and turned the lock. He eased the door open, and began to creep up the stairs. He could hear Elizabeth's lofty voice floating through the room, as she read some poem or another. She was struggling with the irregular flow of it, and every now and then, Erik would interject to correct her pronunciation, or her emphasis.

Henri crested the stairs, and glared down at the two. Erik was splayed comfortably in the chair behind his desk, and Elizabeth was perched primly upon the edge of the loveseat that Henri so adored. He tried to assure himself this was not just blind jealousy, and moved down the staircase on the right.

Angry yellow eyes rose to meet his advancing form, and a hand politely cut off Elizabeth's flow of words.

"May I have a moment alone with the Master, Miss Bryan?" Henri asked of her, after granting her a tiny bow. He tried to keep in mind that this was not her fault, though his own jealousy at being so distanced from Erik, of late, influenced his opinion of her greatly.

"Of course, Henri," she said kindly; she placed a strip of black silk in the book, shut it, and set it on the coffee table in front of her. She stood, curtsied, and moved to take her leave.

"Wait, Elizabeth," Erik said firmly. She froze, and turned curious eyes on him.

"Erik, I think it is best if we have this discussion in private," Henri said through gritted teeth.

"I am sure it is nothing that Elizabeth cannot hear," Erik replied, his tone dangerously tranquil.

"Do you care for her to hear about Christine!"

There was a long pause, in which Henri began to fear that he would be murdered, before Erik gave a slight nod in Elizabeth's direction. "I shall come and find you, when we are finished," he told her; she curtsied again, and left.

Erik waited until he had heard the click of the second-floor door, before pouncing to his feet with a snarl. "How dare you even mention her name?"

"Why are you upset, Erik? Because you do not wish to be reminded of her—or because you know this is dangerously close to being a repetition of the events at the Op—"

"Do not!" he commanded, holding up a hand. "You speak of things about which you know very little."

"I know enough, Erik—you've found another young face with a pretty voice, and you are—"

"Henri," he growled in warning; Henri plowed onward.

"You did it once, and you're doing it again, Erik. I've seen enough to know exactly what is going on here. You lost Christine, and you think you can make up for it by winning over Elizabeth. Just as you imprisoned Christine beneath the opera, so have you confined Elizabeth to this room, as improper as you know it is, and you do God knows what with her, and—"

This time, it was not a voice that cut him off, but a tightening around the throat. He reached up to claw at the thin sliver of rope that had closed itself on his neck, but could not find purchase. His eyes rolled up in his head, as panic overtook him.

He dimly heard footsteps, and then cold fingers pried the lasso from around his neck, and drew it over his head. Henri fell to his knees, gasping, as Erik stood looking down at him with cold, deadly eyes. "Henri, I suggest you go downstairs, and see about supper. I will expect it in my room, promptly at seven." Of the lasso, there was no sign; Henri staggered to his feet, and all but ran up the stairs, and then down them, to spill out into the second-floor hallway. Elizabeth stood not ten feet away, as wide-eyed as ever; Henri did not even take notice of her, as he made his rush to the kitchen—to anywhere, in the name of escaping the monster he had seen looking down at him from behind his Master's face.

"Henri, wait!"

Hands still locked around his neck, eyes still popping out of his skull, he forced himself to halt. A long breath was taken, before slowly he turned to face Elizabeth. He swallowed, hard, and inclined his head to her. "Yes, Miss Bryan?"

She rushed towards him. "What happened? I heard him shouting—I thought he only shouted at me in such a fashion!" It was meant to induce a smile, but the effect was lost on him. Her face went stony. "Dear Henri, what happened?"

He shook his head. "Will you be taking supper downstairs at the table, with your family?"

"Well, I suppose—"

"Very well, then." He turned abruptly, and jogged down the stairs to find Cook.

* * *

Erik sagged against his desk, breaths coming in short bursts. As the rage had vanished, so had his will to stay on his feet, and he felt as if the floor were going to slip out from beneath him. He raised a hand to his face, and ripped his mask clear of his face. The tears were sliding down his cheeks mercilessly, and it was all he could do to set the mask down, rather than hurl it across the room in anger.

Of course, he recognized the truth behind Henri's words, and understood how the boy would have come to that conclusion, but in truth he had no interest in seducing Elizabeth into becoming his eternal bride. What Henri—what the world—did not understand, was that it was not just a pretty voice that lured the Opera Ghost to a woman's side; it had been Christine, all of her, every inch of her, every tiny thing that made her uniquely Christine, that he had loved. Her voice had been his downfall, his weakness, and it was true that Elizabeth's startlingly similar voice had been what had inspired him to play with her, and sing for her... but he did not love her, would never love her, would never love any other.

Elizabeth was too brash; and, on a less romantic note, her voice was, while lovely, not nearly as beautiful, as sublime, as Christine's had been. Erik had accepted his loss of Christine, and did not intend to try such a thing again—though, upon having been asked, he truly could not say why he had decided to take Elizabeth under his tutorage.

He was not sure why he had used the Punjab, either. He was not even sure why he kept it with him any longer; always, it had occurred to him to destroy it, and always something had stayed his hand. And now, he had used it against the only friend, the only loyal man, that he had. He wanted to apologize, but he was not sure how—and he knew that, while it may make some difference, their relationship would never be the same again. He would never have full trust—though, from the looks of things, he had never had it to begin with.

"Erik?"

He let out a startled cry, at the sound of Elizabeth's voice, and grappled for the mask. Quickly, it was pressed into place, and quickly, he dashed away tears.

"Erik, what is the matter?" she cried, rushing towards him. "Oh, my dear tutor, you have been weeping!" She seemed genuinely heart-broken, over the epiphany.

Erik turned away from her, and cleared his throat. "No, Elizabeth, I am fine... Perhaps you should go downstairs."

He could hear the pout coming almost before she spoke. "Why? Have I done something wrong?"

"Well, no—"

"Then I don't see why I should be punished, for something that Henri did to you."

He sighed, and gestured towards the book on the table. "Read to me, then." She watched him for a long moment—he could see her considering defiance. He prayed she would not, prayed she would sit down and read to him. And for a moment, he thought she would comply. She moved towards the loveseat, and sat down amongst the rustling of skirts. The book was lifted, and opened to their page... and then shut again. With her eyes wide—oh, so painfully like Christine's—and her lips pursed, she lifted her countenance to look up him again.

"Monsieur Erik?"

He pressed a hand to his forehead as best he could, and looked up at her through his fingers. "What is it, Elizabeth?"

She hesitated, and he prayed she had lost her nerve, for he knew exactly what she wished to ask. And, sure enough, ask it she did: "Who is.. Christine?"

Erik's hand dropped away, to press against his chest; with a pained expression, he shut his eyes, and shook his head. "No one of importance, my dear." There was a pause, before he migrated to stand with his back to her, hands clasped behind him, facing a bookshelf he did not see. "Read to me, please." It was not a request—it was a plea.

Silence followed it, and he felt certain that she would argue with him again. She was a headstrong young woman, as unlike Christine in demeanor as she could possibly have been. Loud, crude, and totally unafraid of voicing opinions. She ignored or argued with him as often as she obeyed him; he was regularly driven to locking himself into his Opera room, to avoid taking out his temper on her. Once there, he relaxed himself in much the same way as he had when driven to madness by Christine: by playing.

After another moment, her voice picked up the narrative where they had left off, and he allowed himself to be immersed in the story. It was not one that he took much interest in; Henri had told him it would be more suitable reading for a woman than were the hunting stories of Africa, though Erik was of the personal opinion that Elizabeth would have preferred them to the society comedy-romances of the British novelists that Henri continued to bring home to them.

She read for several turns of the page, before her voice faltered into silence at the end of a chapter. It was far from their usual stop time, which was what drove him to turn his head and look at her, eyebrow hefted in query.

"Why do you wear that mask?"

He winced, and turned back to the bookshelf. "Lion attacked me. I—"

"Liar."

He rounded on her, one hand rising to point at the door. "Go," he hissed. "Leave me."

Elizabeth stared at him in disbelief for a moment, before coming to her feet, rage written all over her golden-tanned face. "No! I am not some dog, that you can command to come and go as you please! I am a woman, and I will not be so foolishly shoved aside!"

He was a bit taken aback by her anger. He had no experience, with women who did not quiver before his temper. "Go, or I shall have you removed from this household!" he shouted.

"Please, throw us out!" she replied, with equal volume. "Or, better yet, we shall leave! Anything, to be rid of you and your tantrums!" Already, she was gathering up her skirts to leave.

He watched, brows furrowed, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. He wanted to argue, not particularly because he wanted her to stay, but because it was seen as a genuine horror to him, that he should be bested by such a young girl.

His silence paid off, however, for very soon had she turned around to fix him with a venomous look. "Aren't you going to try and stop me?" she demanded of him.

"Why should I stop you from doing that which I was intending to make you do?"

She made a sound similar to that of a tea kettle, and closed her fists tightly around the material of her skirts. "You think you are so wise! And yet all you are is a poor, pitiful man who hides behind a mask!"

She was starting forwards, and a dreadful fear started up in his stomach. Quickly, he moved to place the desk between them.

"Come here!" she yelled.

He eyed her warily, and made no move to obey.

In a sudden, nimble action, she had launched herself over the desk and onto him. He staggered backwards, but she caught his shoulders, and held herself to him. "I'm going to see this man once and for all!" Anxious fingers were already groping the edges of the mask, beginning to rip it away.

Hands batted her away, and he started for his bedroom. "Keep away from me!" he demanded. Before she could catch up to him, he locked the door to that wing, and retreated to his bed. The sounds of her fists banging on the door followed him into his bedroom; he ignored it, along with her shouts. He seethed in anger, that he was forced to hide from a woman, in his own house—on his own floor! Still, hide he did, and it was a long time before he was certain she had gone.

When he was quite sure, he turned an angry look to the mirror. He discarded of his mask, tossing it lightly onto the bed, and gave himself a long, steady look—something he had not done in many years. Each and every inch of that horrible flesh was studied, memorized anew.

And after he was quite sure he would not forget again anytime soon, he proceeded to crush the mirror into those one thousand pieces he had previously fantasized about.


	7. The Breaking Point

—_A/N_—

_Okay, I lied—this chapter is 0 from Erik's point of view. However, you will see why in a moment: there are very interesting circumstances, surrounding this chapter. There was a note added into Erik's memoirs, by Henri, who seems to believe that Erik has no recollection of the event that nearly shattered their lives—but, I will let Henri talk for Henri, and will not try to add my own words to the mixture._

_

* * *

_

The Breaking Point

_I suppose it is unwise, to do what I now do. But I am an old man, and my mind is fading, and it is only right that I should shed light upon the dark gap in my master's memoirs—for, after all, who else is there but I?_

_After penning in the epilogue that Madame de Chagny had requested in her will—recounting, in short, the events after her return to him, and the tale of his death and burial—I found myself driven to read the rest of his memoirs. I discovered a great many things there—the full truth of the relationship between the Phantom and Christine Daaé; the full and unblemished history of his days before Paris: the fairs, the "rosy hours of Mazenderan", his escape from Persia with the aid of his friend "Daroga", his days in Constantinople, and even detailed architectural plans of the Opéra Populaire; and, of course, his days with me, stretching from the exodus from the opera-house and Paris, up to his final chapter, which ended in the arrival of Madame de Chagny at our _(marked through)_**his** estate. _

_In all occasions but this one, he was both detailed and honest, regardless of whether he had been in the right or the wrong. Personally, I believe he was too kind to Madame de Chagny in his retelling of the events of his life, and she has said as much as would lead me to believe that she is of a similar mind. _

_Regardless, I would not dream of changing his own words—I fear, even, adding to them. I think, however, that in the interest of making later decisions more easily understood, he would not be too upset with me. For, truly, I question whether he even recalls the incident..._

_Mr. Henri Goodings._

"Henri! Oh, Henri! Thank Heavens I found you!"

Weary eyes lifted to find Elizabeth hurrying into the kitchens, reaching out towards him. When she came close to him, she clasped his arm, and her head fell forward onto his shoulder. "Oh, Henri, Henri," she moaned. "You must come and see Erik!"

Henri shook his head, and leaned away from her. "The Master and I are not currently on good terms," he managed, around the constant swelling sensation in his throat. He had wanted to chase it away with Cook's brandy; she had refused him that small pleasure, and instead poured some vile native remedy down his throat, claiming that it would ease his pains. So far, it had merely made him want to shove a hand down his throat and pull out his stomach manually.

"Oh, Henri, if but only you could understand!" She tugged on his arm, nearly dragging him from his perch. He had assumed she had strength; he had not assumed she was actually strong. "I think I have killed him!"

He scoffed, and jerked his arm from her grasp. "He does not want my aid, Madam!"

"But he must have it!" She had made the shift from despair to anger easily, and he could see her squaring off for a fight. "Whether he may desire it or not, he is in need of his friend, sir!"

Henri slammed his hand down on the counter. "I am his friend no longer!"

Elizabeth stiffened, and anger wielded to numb shock. "But..."

"Yes," he growled, "I have said it. I am not his friend. I am only a servant now."

A hand raised to press against his cheek, forcing his head to turn in her direction. "I know not what passed between the two of you, and I truly don't care, either. All I know is that, as either servant or friend, you must go to him!"

With a longsuffering sigh, Henri rose, and followed her back to the third floor. She had left his door hanging open; two maids stood nearby, gawking up the stairs at the horrifying wails coming from it. Henri cleared his throat; they scattered, murmuring apologies. Henri and Elizabeth both took a deep breath, and moved up the stairs, Henri shutting and locking the door to the stairs behind them.

She led him to the bedroom suite, though she need not have; he could hear the noises coming from there, could have located Erik even if blind. The door was locked; Elizabeth gave him a degrading look for even trying the knob. He withdrew his key, and had only half-unlocked the door when the wails ceased. Henri froze; he and Elizabeth both stopped breathing. It seemed the Phantom of the Opera had decided never again to be taken by surprise. Minutes passed, before slowly the wails began again, increasing in volume with every moment that they continued.

"How did you think you'd killed him, with all that racket?" Henri whispered.

Elizabeth shrugged, and replied in equally soft tones, "I suppose I thought more that he was in the act of dying, rather than already dead."

Something was humorous about the conversation, and Henri found himself fighting back a grin as he eased the door open. There was nothing but darkness to be seen within; the tiny hallway led to a thickly-curtained window, with a door branching off of it that opened into Erik's room. Henri cursed himself; the light from the library was flooding into the hall, leaving no doubt as to his and Elizabeth's presence.

A shard of glass shattered against the wall next to his head; he and Elizabeth both ducked, hands coming to rest atop their heads to shield them from the resulting shower of glass pieces.

"Get out!" Erik roared from the bedroom. "Out, out, out!" There was desperation, hidden within the command.

Henri continued forward, crouched close to the ground like an animal. It was not long before his fingers encountered broken glass. "Erik, what have you done?" he breathed.

As he rounded the corner into his bedroom, he found Erik prostrate, and naked. It took all of his bravery, all of his lingering affection for the man—for the monster—not to flinch at the sight of Erik's unmasked face. He awaited the scream from Elizabeth, but none came; her only acknowledgement of the vision of horror was a simple, "That is the mark of no lion I have ever seen."

Henri ignored her, and crept slowly towards Erik, the glass crunching beneath his shoes. As he came closer, he could see the gashes, the slices, the abrasions on Erik's skin. He had apparently been rolling in the pile of glass for quite some time. His hands were the worst; they were barely discernable as human. Henri assumed he had used them to break the glass. A flicker of a gaze was granted to the now-bare spot on Erik's wall; it did not come as a surprise, to find an empty mirror frame hanging there.

"Erik," Henri said softly, "we've got to get you out of this."

The man lunged at him, snarling like an animal, and clawing frenziedly with one hand. Henri avoided him easily, and Erik collapsed again amongst the glass, sobbing.

"Elizabeth," Henri warned as she drew nigh, "he is not clothed—and apparently not sane, either," he added in quieter tones.

"Oh, Henri, dash _propriety_. He needs our help." With the sure hands of a woman, she took Erik's face, one hand on either cheek, and looked down into his blood-and-tears-streaked face. "Erik, we're going to put you on the bed." Henri noticed that, unlike Christine, Elizabeth did not flinch or shudder upon coming into contact with Erik's right half. A new burst of esteem for the girl budded inside his chest.

Erik groaned in response, but did not struggle against her. Henri moved alongside him, and struggled to get his arms beneath the man—struggled even more to lift him. Elizabeth helped as best she could, though Erik was a trial even with their strength combined. He was a large man, and had only grown more muscular, more weighty, with his increased activity. They did, however, manage to get him over to the bed; Elizabeth's quick right hand was the only thing that rescued Erik's mask from certain death beneath the man's bulk.

Henri situated him as best he could, before turning and lighting the lamp beside the bed. "Elizabeth, go downstairs, and get a basin of warm water, and strips of linen. Fetch some tweezers; it looks as if he's got glass in some of these deeper cuts." Henri looked down at that ravaged body with pity, before continuing. "And, ask Cook if she knows of any treatments for cuts—and have her make a lot of it." He considered for a moment, and then handed her his key, and added, "Lock the doors behind you—going _and _coming." His gaze was returned to Erik. "We don't want any prying eyes, do we?"

A moan escaped those bloody lips, and the man replied, "No, no—misery such as mine has no pride! I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to the world!" And then his words drifted away into unintelligible sobs.

Elizabeth nodded without question, and danced her way across the plethora of glass bits on the floor. It was a dangerous trip; Erik had bled much, and it made the wood floor slick. Her innate grace carried her across safely, however, and Henri turned his attention back to the man who was now steadily leaking blood onto the finest bed in the house.

"Oh, Erik... What were you thinking?"

Pleading yellow eyes turned on him, and a trembling mass of flesh—previously, a hand—raised to grasp Henri's arm. "My friend," he whispered. "Please forgive me..."

Henri nodded, and patted an uninjured swath of flesh on the older man's shoulder. "Of course, Erik... Of course." And how could he not? Pity alone supplied him with the means of forgiving his Master.

Erik relaxed visibly, and allowed his eyes to shut. He rested for only a brief moment, before his eyes shot open again. He groped wildly for Henri, and focused his gaze on the younger man's intently. "Oh, I did not mean what I said... I do not care for all to know of my wretchedness... Don't.. tell Christine," he said. "Swear to me you will not, swear to me you will reserve me that one dignity!"

Henri shook his head. "No, Erik, of course. Not a word shall pass my lips."

The Opera Ghost, to the relief of his butler, fell into exhausted sleep before he could see the young man's tears.

* * *

With Elizabeth's help, Henri was able to patch up Erik with relative ease. His front side was attended to first, and then he was rolled over so that they could attend to his back side. Elizabeth was caught blushing a few times, but overall handled herself well. She divulged to Henri that it was not a new sight for her; her birth parents had died of a sickness contracted in the African jungles, where they had held hospitals for the natives, and she had, she told Henri, helped them regularly in the hospitals when she was old enough to do so.

Erik's face was difficult. For all appearances, he had attempted to grind glass into the right side, and they could not quite decide how to deal with the skin. Its papery consistency was such to suggest that an attempt at sewing up the particularly large gashes would be wasted effort. Still, Henri cleared it of all the granules of glass that he could find, and Elizabeth mounded on Cook's salve liberally, and did what she could do bandage it. Henri could hardly bear to aid her in healing the thing; it was not a disgust with the skin itself that stayed his hand, but rather a disgust with what had been done to it, with knowing that he had contributed to what had made the man do such a thing to his own body.

When Erik's body had been sufficiently seen to, they moved on to his hands. These they had saved for last, for they promised to require more effort and more attention than any of the rest of him. Seemingly hundreds of bits of glass were captured within the skin there; it was tedious work, made more so by having to work around one another. As soon as Henri would remove a few bits of glass, the blood flow would start anew, and Elizabeth would be forced to move in, soak it up, and immediately tie up the skin. They wrapped his hands in bandages that were practically soaked in the salve, and then Henri went to fetch two chairs from the library. He refused to leave Erik's side, and Elizabeth insisted upon keeping him company.

When he returned with the second chair, he found Elizabeth crouched on the floor, trying her best to pick up the glass in the dim light. Henri moved to her side and urged her to stand. "Please," he said, "you have done enough for one evening. Sit, and I will see to it."

She complied much more easily than Henri had expected, and quickly sat down near the bed. Henri fell upon the task that she had abandoned, removing his coat and placing the lifted glass on top of it. The blood on the floor had dried, and was sticky; he had nearly to sacrifice blood of his own, merely to lift the glass.

"I feel so terrible," she said suddenly, as she looked upon Erik's sleeping form. "It's all my doing. I... I tried to make him—"

"Elizabeth, hush," Henri interrupted, his voice more filled with impatience than he had intended. "This is my own fault; you merely placed the icing on the cake."

She shook her head, and covered her eyes with her hands. "You do not know what I said to him!" she cried. "Awful things! Horrid things! Things I would not say to an animal, and I said them to him!"

Henri forced down his irritation with her. "What I said was worse," he argued gently. "It is quite impossible that you said anything more cruel than I." He hesitated in his work, to fix her with a steady glare.

"I suppose," she said after a moment, "but I could have healed those wounds." Her hands fell away, and she looked again at the sleeping man. "And I didn't. Instead, I deepened them."

He could not argue with her, and so they both fell into an awkward silence. Henri began picking up glass again, wondering if the floor would ever be properly clean again, and Elizabeth drifted deep into thought. Many minutes passed in that fashion, enough to allow Henri to have nearly halfway cleaned the glass from the floor.

She spoke again. "He was born that way."

It was not a question, but Henri grunted in the affirmative anyway.

One hand rose to press its fingers against her lips. "Oh, that poor creature," she whispered around them. And then, a little louder, "And... I suppose Chris—?"

"Sh!"

She looked at him in a mix of shock and insult, at being so rudely cut off.

"Her name will wake him," he offered in explanation. She nodded, and then continued.

"I suppose.. _she_.. was a love? A woman who.. could not look past.. his face?" Her words were delicately chosen, and even more delicately spoken, as if she feared insult should be implied.

Henri nodded, and stood with his bundled coat, to dump it of its load. "Among other things, yes," he answered, migrating to the window and thrusting it open. Beneath them stretched one of the side yards; no one was in sight. He released one end of the jacket, and bloody, glittering bits fell from it to scatter on the ground far below. As he shut the window and turned back to the room, he could just barely make out her shape in the chair, but spoke in her general direction, and knew that she would not mistake who his words were intended for.

"You must never mention her in front of him."

A nod was all she gave—but, from her, a nod was all he needed.

* * *

_After that night, Erik became reclusive once more. He refused to see even Elizabeth or I, though we persevered in going to see him every chance we got. He insisted he take his meals in his rooms—often, he did not even eat them—and he would not come out for all the world. He even returned to his former habits of sleeping during the day, and arising only well after sunset. We would not have known he was awake, but for the music coming from his organ. The entire household shook beneath that infernal music; it was impossible to escape, unless one was willing to walk nearly a mile away from the house. And that music followed you everywhere; even if you could no longer hear it with your ears, you could still hear it with your soul. I believe he was writing in an attempt to replace, in his heart, the space that once 'Don Juan Triumphant' had filled._

_In a desperate attempt to jar him into action, I threatened to have César sold; he ignored me, and when I went to the stables the next week, was informed by Jim that César had, indeed, been sold, to one of the local gentlemen. It was, luckily, well within our expense that I was able to buy back the stallion, and Erik and I never spoke of the incident, though I am of the opinion that he knew full well that I would buy back the horse._

_It was many months of restless sleep before, one night, there was no music. Elizabeth and I both met in the corridor—her room was near to mine—and rushed up the stairs to his floor together. Dawn was just peeking over the horizon, and Erik stood in front of his drawing room windows, the curtains flung wide, his hands and face pressed against the glass. He was quoting a French poem that once he had shown to me—or at least, he was quoting one piece of it, over and over again._

_"Le front aux vitres comme font les veilleurs de chagrin  
Je te cherche par-delà l'attente__Par-delà moi-même.  
__Et je ne sais plus tant je t'aime  
__Lequel de nous deux est absent."_

_It was a poem by Paul Eluard—or, as I have said, a part of one. What he was saying meant,_

_'With my forehead pressed against the pane as a vigil of sorrow  
I search for you beyond expectation  
__Beyond myself.  
__I love you so much that I no longer know  
__Which one of us is absent.'_

_Elizabeth and I clung to one another, shivering, her own cheeks glistening with tears. We watched him for a very long time, as the light slowly flooded the room, and listened as he repeated that stanza over and over again, until it had burned into our memory as surely as it was burned into his._

_When he turned around, he was not crying, as I had expected. His mask was back in place, and he looked like the confident, cold man that I had met years ago in a stable, in a town I no longer remembered the name of. The only difference was the growing amount of grey in his hair, for even his weight was back to as it had been then. He had not been eating his meals at all, I would later discover—what I had thought was an occasional refusal of food was actually a total avoidance of it, for he told me he threw his food out the window, when he could remember to, to avoid worrying me. He claimed that he lived solely on music, and that he had neither ate nor slept, and I could believe it. He looked like nothing more than a skeleton._

_Erik returned to life as he had known it prior to Elizabeth's arrival, acting for all appearances like a normal person once more—or, as normal as he could ever act. He took his breakfasts in the kitchen with Cook, talking companionably to her; he ate his lunches and dinners in the dining room, with Mrs. Lyle, her daughter, Elizabeth, and myself. He even came and took tea with us on occasion, which was a totally new event—Erik had never cared for tea, and thus had never cared for taking tea. He began riding César again, and Elizabeth gladly joined him. The only real difference in his schedule was that, while he still tutored her in other things, he never again indulged in voice lessons with Elizabeth—and even went so far as to forbid that she could sing in his presence. However, in all other social situations, he endeavored to please me, even going so far as to sit in on a few of my business meetings, though he did little more than sit in the corner and listen attentively._

_Still, Elizabeth and I both knew that the façade was as fragile as was the porcelain one on his face._


	8. The Fateful Expedition

The Fateful Expedition

_When Henri and Elizabeth found me, mourning in the first grey streaks of dawn, it was to Christine that I called. I am sure that such an idea was the first they assumed, but words hold high meaning to one such as I, and to say it makes it more real, more true. The poem that I quoted was one that I had encountered long before, and of course even upon the initial reading was I struck with the similarity between the second stanza, and my own emotions. I do not know why it occurred to me to repeat it aloud, that morning—that mourning; it seemed fitting, and my instincts demanded it of me, and so did I do it._

_Upon turning to face them—they are not nearly as stealthy as they think themselves to be—I was stung by their resemblance to another pair of traumatized young lovers whom I had once encountered. While I imagine it requires no imagination at all to conjure up which lovers I could possibly be speaking of, I will—for the sake of clarity, and for the sake of faultless records—state that I do, indeed, speak of Christine and the Vicomte. The way they clung to each other, trembling and weeping, and Henri trying so hard to appear brave for the sake of Elizabeth..._

_After that morning, I took it upon myself to learn more of what Henri did for me. Seeing him standing there with Elizabeth forced me to realize that it was possible that he would not always be around to aid me, and thus I felt that I needed to have some vague idea of his responsibilities. For, how would I find and hire a replacement, if I did not know the requirements?_

"Good morning, Monsieur," was the quietly-offered greeting that he received, upon entering the kitchens for the first time in so long. Cook stood sheepishly near her stove, arms floured up to her elbows, contrasting strangely with her upper arms' ebon skin.

"And a good morning to you, as well," Erik returned, as he took his usual stool at the island. He folded his hands on the counter, and fixed a steady smile on his lips. She watched him uncertainly for a moment, and then rushed into motion, dropping her current work in favor of cooking his breakfast. It was accomplished in her usual fashion—superhumanly fast—and deposited in front of him with trembling hands.

"I am sorry it was not waiting for you, sir," she said with a curtsey. "We.. got used to not having you down here."

The smile faded at the timid behavior, and his back straightened. With stiff movements, he began to eat the food, at a much slower pace than his appetite demanded. Cook returned to her work, going about it with ridiculously delicate motions, as if she feared too quick or hard of an action would provoke him.

He endured the tense silence for only a few minutes, before dropping his fork with a clatter, wiping his mouth on the napkin that draped across his thigh, and settling a hard glare on her large form. It was only moments before she became aware of his scrutiny, and turned her head to look at him.

"Do you require something?" she asked carefully.

He considered a moment, and then nodded. "Yes, actually—I'd like to have my old cook back."

A startled look took charge of her countenance, and very cautiously, she murmured, "I have always worked here, Monsieur..."

His head shook, and he held up a hand in protest. "On the contrary, Madame, I do not believe you have. A very chatty woman used to be head cook in my kitchens. You look quite like her, but your silence suggests that she must have been replaced."

She watched him for a long moment, before a smile broke out on her lips. He responded in kind, though his smile was still rather reserved. "Monsieur, forgive me," she said in a rush. "Henri had warned us that you may not be in the best of dispositions, and so I thought—"

Erik smiled softly, and nodded, thus cutting her short. "I understand."

She relaxed visibly, as she turned back to her work, and tackled it with her usual vigor. A moment of silence passed between them, while Erik picked up his fork and began eating again. It was not long, however, until Cook began interrogating him with her inherent candor.

"Why did you not come and eat, for so long?"

He answered with a shrug. "I was busy, I suppose."

A nod, and more silence, and then, "What happened to your hands?"

With a wrinkled lip, Erik turned his eyes to his hands. He still held them awkwardly, still had a little trouble holding small items such as the fork, and was almost afraid to attempt riding César—for, with them still so tender, and the horse having gone unexercised in so long a time, he knew he would end up in more than a little pain. "I had a dispute," he replied finally. "With the mirror in my bedroom."

A raised eyebrow was granted him, this time, instead of the nod. "I see," she said. "And what of the music? Do not tell me you had a dispute with an organ, as well?"

He chuckled, and held up a finger to signal patience, as he chewed his current bite of breakfast. "That," he said finally, as his expression sobered, "was a dispute with far more than just an organ, Madame. That was a dispute with... fate, I suppose."

More silence, as she turned her attention back to her work. A sudden awkwardness overtook Erik, and he paused in his meal. He had never spoken of his music to anyone—except the obvious, Christine—and to have just done so with such ease was a suddenly disturbing thing. Now uncomfortable, he shifted on the stool, and began to pick miserably at his half-full plate.

"Are you not hungry any longer, Monsieur?"

He shook his head, and she took the plate away from him. A cup of coffee took its place, and he sipped it with a pleased expression. He was glad of the energy it would provide, for he was sure he would need it on this day; with energy came bravery, and bravery was needed in massive amounts to accomplish the things on his new agenda.

As if she had read his thoughts, Cook asked, "What are your plans for today, Monsieur?"

Another gulp of coffee and a long breath, and he felt steady enough in nerves to reply. "I intend to accompany Henri this afternoon, when he goes to see about business." As if this had not elicited enough shock from her, he plowed onward. "And prior to that, I intend to join Mrs. Lyle and her daughter for.." He winced. "..tea. I have realized that I have not paid them nearly as much attention as is due, and so thought that I should set to right that wrong immediately."

Cook nodded numbly, still looking at him with disbelief.

"And," he added, "a good stretch of the legs, for César and myself, is long overdue. I intend to fit that in, somewhere between now, my usual hour with Miss Bryan, and tea."

"Well, I suppose you had better drink that coffee quickly, then," she said with a weak attempt at a smile. Erik did not reply, except to do as she had suggested.

* * *

"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of the dreams..."

He was not listening to her as she read. Her heartless drone of words, he had tuned out, for the sake of mental self-preservation—she did not much care for poetry, unless it were of the romantic type, and thus did she endeavor to sound as bored as possible whenever reading anything different. If he had not been so firm in his refusal to give in to her childish behavior, he would gladly have handed her something more to her liking, if only to escape the mindless progression of unfelt words.

"And out of a fabulous story, we fashion an empire's glory..."

His eyes had fastened upon the door to the Opera room. He had been within for so long... and yet, already, he longed to return. There were no more notes left to write—would not be, for years, if this piece was anything like his beloved 'Don Juan Triumphant'—but still he longed to lock himself within and never return. His heart ached for the Opera Garnier, and while returning to Paris was more work than he cared to submit himself to, the prospect of becoming entrapped within so similar a space was an appealing one. To sit before the organ, if merely for the sake of stroking its keys, to hear the quiet hum of music that only his fingers could so artfully wield—he would stroke those ivory tabs as he would have stroked her ivory skin, and listen to the notes as he would have listened to her voice.

But keys did not warm beneath his touch; keys did not look upon him with wide-eyed terror and adoration; keys did not reach out to reciprocate the touch he so lovingly bestowed upon them.

"For each age is a dream that is dying, or one that is coming to birth..."

And there was Henri. How could he lock himself away again, knowing how it disturbed his friend? To destroy himself was one thing; to drag down into damnation one of the few men who had shown him affection was quite another. His presence here was more important than he had thought it; the relief he had seen in Cook's eyes—the relief that had been almost palpable, in the stuffy air of the kitchen—upon seeing him smile... Elizabeth, as well, had cried out in joy upon receiving his invitation for a ride. César had trembled beneath his hand at the glee of an outing, had pressed his slimy lips to Erik's cheek and smeared the juices of his breakfast all across his rider's left side. The stallion's soft white coat, so neglected by the idiot grooms, had been near-grey with dirt. It had been matted, and muddy from inattention. And beneath those steady, familiar hands, it had been brought to angelic glory once more, in only a few minutes.

"But one man's soul it hath broken, a light that doth not depart..."

Things he would never have dreamed he could become attached to now tied him to life as surely as his music had tied Christine to him. The only question, now, was if the hideous reality of life would release him from its grip as easily as his own hideousness had released Christine. César was growing old; he had not been a young horse, even at the opera-house, and that had been years ago. Erik found himself floundering, even, to figure up how many it had been. They all had blurred together into a mass of boredom and self-pity, with few occasions serving as landmarks. Christine's visit, and the subsequent move to Africa, was the only events of any true weight. He could not even recall how long they had spent in London...

"Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be that we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, a little apart from ye."

And Henri would, surely, not wish to remain forever in the service of such a pitiable man. He would want a family, perhaps want to take what salary he had accumulated—which was enough to live comfortably off of for the remainder of his life—and start a quiet life somewhere, away from the anger and misery of the Opera Ghost. Surely, surely, he would leave Erik behind, just as surely as César would.

"And already goes forth the warning, that ye of the past must die."

Eyes sought out Elizabeth, fastening upon her with a dreamy scrutiny. She was, by far, the largest anomaly in his life. There was nothing for her here, and yet she refused to even consider departing. She was unlike any woman he had encountered before; hard, strong, and as quick to resort to violence as was any young man. She was intelligent, for the most part, though she did not have a very large attention span, and was almost convinced that anything she had never encountered before—as far as literature went—she would not like—and, upon being proven wrong, would endeavor to claim she had never foreseen a dislike of the material.

He was near-certain she had seen him without his mask. Even without any real recollection of what transpired after his fall to the temptation of destroying the mirror, he was certain—Henri had aided him; it was not a far cry from that, to assume that Elizabeth had as well. And yet, no look of disgust crossed her face, nor even lingered in her eyes, when she looked upon him.

"Great hail! we cry to the comers, from the dazzling unknown shore; bring us hither your sun and your summers, and renew our world as of yore; you shall teach us your song's new numbers, and things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, and a singer who sings no more."

The book was shut with force, and she raised her eyes to meet his own. He could see the rebellion shining in their depths; she would refuse to read anything more, this day.

Before she had the pleasure of refusing, however, he stood up. "I think that is enough for today, do you not agree?"

He saw and felt the anger flare in her; she knew as well as he did that he had purposefully stunted her attempt at mutiny. With a smile fighting desperately to lift the corners of his lips, he turned his back to her, to walk towards his bedroom. "I am going into town with Henri, this afternoon," he said over his shoulder. "You are more than welcome to accompany us."

As he unlocked and opened the door to his bedroom, he was kind enough to pretend he had not heard the vulgarities she had so comfortably spewn at his back.

* * *

Erik found himself wishing he had thought to drink something far stronger than coffee.

The town, he had expected to be much smaller than it was. Natives were everywhere, crowding the streets so thickly that the trio—Elizabeth, Henri, and Erik—had to urge their mounts to shove the pedestrians out of the way. César took to the job willingly; he was a good-natured horse, but had learned early on that his size was a useful tool, and was not at all afraid to exploit it. The courser fell into pace behind the ivory stallion; its wiry frame was not as suitable for forcing its way through a crowd. Elizabeth's horse—a mount she had never before touched, having grown used to riding the courser—followed Henri's gelding, gnawing anxiously on its bit.

When they reached the pub where Henri was to meet with this current business associate, the horses were tied up to a hitching post—Erik felt as if he were existing within one of the periodicals from their London days; a part of him half-expected to hear gunshots ring out, answered by the whooping cry of the American savages. Henri led the way within, and was kind enough to give pause at the doorway, while Erik's eyes adjusted to the shift in light. The pub was dim, within, and Erik's eyes had not yet become accustomed enough to the African sunlight to handle abrupt changes in lighting.

When at last his eyes did adjust, he found himself looking across a smoky expanse of tables and armchairs, with a bar sprawled along one corner. Trophies adorned the walls; the heads of every African creature that he had read of now stared at him with glassy eyes from their lofty perches. Cigar smoke clouded the room, and tickled Erik's nostrils relentlessly. Elizabeth pressed a hand to her lips, and gave a polite cough.

"Henri!"

All three turned to find a man—who, to Erik, looked astonishingly similar to Lord Pembroke—coming across the room towards them. Henri walked to meet him, and the two met in a jovial handshake. Words were exchanged, and they began to walk back across the room, towards a circle of armchairs where several other cigar-wielding men sat. Elizabeth tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and propelled him forwards. As they neared the circle, the men all glanced up from their drinks and cigars, and fell into uncomfortable silence.

Henri shifted his weight, and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen.. Might I present my Master, Monsieur... Erik." No surname was given; the two had never discussed what would suffice, should ever a name be needed—but, luckily, the men did not seem to notice. Each offered their hands, before allowing Erik to take a chair a little outside of the circle; Elizabeth drew a chair near to his, and sat as well.

"So, this is the 'eccentric Frenchman', hm?"

Erik's eyes turned to the man speaking; he was the oldest of the men in the circle, though Erik predicted he was younger than Pembroke. The man's gaze did not waver, and Erik granted a nod of assent, though it was not, in truth, required.

"A lion, hm?" Bushy grey eyebrows were furrowing over his ice-blue eyes.

Again, Erik gave a slight nod, his own yellow eyes locked onto the man's.

"Well, we're all hunters here, aren't we boys?" The man looked around the circle of uncomfortable men, and then back to Erik. The defensive anger rising in Henri was tangible; Erik wished he were closer, so that he could grant the boy a touch on the sleeve, to calm him. A smirk grew, beneath those icy eyes, as the next words were spoken: "With the exception of your young lady, there are none here who would be disturbed by your scars; take off that silly mask."

That comment about Elizabeth, so innocently thrown in, was Erik's savior. Elizabeth's pretty voice was flung into the smoky air: "Please, gentlemen, I've no desire to see such a sight." She pressed a hand to her throat, and gave a little giggle. It was all Erik could do not to snort.

"Yes, gentleman—please." Henri stepped forward to take a chair, and accepted a drink from one of the other men. "Let us get down to business, shall we?"

As they rattled on into their talk, Erik tried desperately to pay attention, and found it impossible. Music rose to his mind again without thought; his run-in with the mirror, that acceptance of a decline into total insanity and misery, had somehow given back his gift. And as the music played, so did the words to another poem begin to echo through his mind.

_As the swallow glides over the sea  
__I long to flee to distant lands;  
__But my wish is vain, a cruel girl  
Has bound my heart with three gold strands._

His head cocked to one side, as eyes followed the lazy curls of smoke in the air. A violin sang along with that curl, its note swooping and shivering along with the air currents. Elizabeth leaned over and whispered something in his ear; a pittering of flute notes was all he heard.

_I love her too much; I am her martyr,  
With three gold strands she snared my heart._

Elizabeth was whispering again, and giggling; a rich and golden harp chord accompanied that laugh. He longed to hear her sing, and hoped never to hear it again. He wanted to raise his voice in song with her; he wanted to rip his vocal chords from his throat. He wanted to... He wanted to sing with Christine. His mind sought to replace Christine with Elizabeth, but his heart argued futilely against the act. "No wonder I feel as if I am in pieces," he whispered.

Pieces. Pieces, like the mirror. His blood, entwined amongst hardwood floor with glittering bits of reflection, making a beautiful portrait of A-chords and heartstrings.

_Oh! If I could only untie my binding chain,  
Forget my despair, unfold my wings.  
But no, I would much rather die in pain  
Than sever you, my three strands of gold._

Henri was standing, and so were the other men, to shake his hand farewell. Elizabeth tugged Erik to his feet, and again looped her arm through his. "Are you alright?" she murmured in his ear.

Murmuring, like a long, quiet cello note; or, was that a bassoon? How could one confuse a cello and a bassoon? He shook his head; the smoke was wrapping around his eyes, around his mind, and he felt as if he would never find the way to heaven if he were trapped amongst the ashen twilight of this pitiful place.

"You should come hunting with us, Henri," a man was saying, and the others all voiced their assent. Henri was trying his best to politely decline, but the men insisted. Henri turned to Erik, eyebrows raised—two perfect eyebrows, symmetrical and without fault. If Elizabeth had not had his arm so firmly entwined with her own, he would have raised a hand to his porcelain brow.

"Monsieur Erik? Shall we go hunting, next week?"

A snowy expanse clouded his vision; a tiny cabin, on the barest clutches of civilization, with the moonlight shining down on it and betraying its expensive make, despite its humble style. The dark forests of the northlands stretched behind it, while the light of a town glowed on the horizon to one side. He could envision it with very little imagination at all.

He had not been to the cold, cruel north since the days of his youth; the fairs had passed through, once.

"Yes," he breathed. "I think.. it is time.. to hunt."

While the old men congratulated one another on their imagined victory, Henri and Elizabeth locked gazes, and shivered.


	9. The Madman's Desperate Love

_—A/N— _

_My one and only disgustingly-frustrating cliff-hanger—I swear. However, as what was meant to be the second part of this chapter could take forever to write, I thought I would give you a little something to feed on before making you wait. The reason it could very well take a while is that I am getting help in writing it—a very, very close friend of mine, who is very well acquainted with Christine's character, is helping me to make a convincing Christine, and since it is often difficult for she and I to get together long enough to accomplish much... Well. You get the idea._

_I'm going to take this moment to communicate with one of my reviewers, who does not have their e-mail listed on their profile but chose to ask me several questions in their review._

_EriksIngenue:_

**_Was Erik remembering sleeping with Christine? _**_– No._

**_Did he beat her up or save her from Raoul?_**_ – She was running away with Raoul; he found out, killed Raoul, and beat her severely, and then strangled her with the Punjab._

**_So...Did they sleep together? _**_– Kind of. He lapsed into insanity, hypothetically, while he was hurting/killing her, and then proceeded to make love to her as if she were still living, because he did not realize she was dead._

**_Did someone beat her up? Who? _**_– Yes; Erik did._

**_Was he remembering or was it just a dream? _**_– No, it was a nightmare. A terribly disturbing one at that, which was why it resulted in Erik having to shove his head out the window to gag. After all, not only did he make love to a corpse, but it was the corpse of the one woman he never wished to harm.  
_

_Thanks for putting up with that, and thanks to all my reviewers—I appreciate it more than you could know!_

_

* * *

_

The Madman's Desperate Love

_It was an awful thing, a terrible thing, a thing I should never have done. But I could not escape her—so, in my lunacy, it seemed only logical that she be unable to escape me._

_—O.G. _

Henri awoke to the sound of fists pummeling against his door. Elizabeth's voice called to him from without, begging—pleading—that he arise.

Slowly, he sat up, a hand rising in an attempt to smooth his hair back into decency. He of course failed, but felt somewhat better about it knowing that he had at least put in the effort.

It had been nearly a week since Erik had returned to them from the self-imposed exile into his Opera room. Only the slight disorientation he had appeared to feel, upon leaving the business engagement, was hint of any lingering weakness. He had thrown himself into daily life with a passion Henri had not known the man to have—at least, not when it came to anything aside from music, and _her_. Still, concern remained; Henri could see the insanity that danced in those eyes, whenever a quiet moment permitted Erik's thoughts to drift, and the idea that another lapse could be coming on frightened him.

Stumbling steps carried him to the doorway, and he unlocked and opened the door. Elizabeth, wrapped tightly in a housecoat, fell into his arms. Numbly, he held her, mind still fighting to comprehend what she was doing. He could hear her speaking, but could not discern the words between her broken sobs, and the muffling effect directly resulting from her face's burial in his neck. Gently, he sought to push her away from him, only enough to communicate with her, but she just clung all the harder. With a great amount of effort, he was able to draw her far enough into the room that he could shut the door; already, in his mind, he could envision the maids standing nearby and whispering about the sobbing girl.

When she had cried for nearly ten minutes, she at last fell silent, and took half a step back from him. "Oh, Henri," she wailed, one hand wiping feebly at her eyes. "It's terrible!"

"What? What's terrible?" he asked anxiously, lowering his head to look her directly in the eye. "Has something happened? What's happened? What's going on?" Blind panic was beginning to overtake the lingering sleepiness.

Those round eyes blinked, and glanced down at him. "...Why are you still dressed?"

Resisting the urge to throttle her, he replied with a shrug. "I was too tired to change."

"Henri, you're still wearing your shoes!"

"I was tired." And it was true—far truer than she could have suspected. He had spent every waking hour—and there were far more of those than there should have been—rushing around the house, trying to ready everything for the hunting trip. All other duties fell in priority, to give way to the preparations. And, once he had completed his work on those for the day, then was he forced to stay up through most of the night completing his other obligations.

Elizabeth shook her head, and raised her eyes to again meet his own. "Regardless, there is something quite important to discuss."

He waited, but she did not speak. He squeezed her elbows, lifted his eyebrows—and was rewarded only with silence.. "What?" he demanded finally.

"Well..." She fidgeted; her hands fell to smoothing out his shirt. It was quite wrinkled, from having been slept upon.

"What? What, what, what?"

She cast her eyes down to look upon his stomach, lashes batting against her cheeks. After a moment, she stepped closer to him again. This time, he was distinctly aware of each gentle curve that pressed against him, each cool inch of flesh that touched his own. Her hands came to rest on the back of his neck, and her face rose to press its lips against his in the smallest, most chaste of kisses.

When she pulled back to stare at him inquisitively, he could only blink.

"I am sorry, but.. I have been wanting to do that for a very long while." She smiled a bit, and retreated from him, moving to stand near the doorway. "Ever since I saw you with Erik, when he.. broke the mirror.." She shrugged, and opened the door. "Well... I just thought I should grant you the little joy of knowing my affection for you, before I brought the world crashing down around your ears."

He hefted one eyebrow. "What do you—?"

With a sigh, and the glisten of renewed tears in her eyes, she said, "Erik has vanished."


	10. The Madman's Desperate Love, Part Two

_A/N_

_Thank you, Tiffany! Without you, this would have been impossible to write. Everyone give her one huge round of applause, for helping me make such an excellent Christine!_

_Don't worry, folks--she'll be here for several more chapters, if all goes well, making my writing actually have a little flavor, for a time. _

The Madman's Desperate Love—Part Two

Trembling limbs barely supported his weight as he crouched, hidden, in the shadows and the cold. A small window was above and to the right of him; the light from within filtered through its thick panes, weakly attempting to chase the night and its demons away—but one demon prevailed, the demon who was once so fondly referred to as an angel. This demon's limbs were numb from waiting for hours in the cold northern night. Old advice traced its way through his mind, to wiggle toes and stomp feet; it seemed like nothing more than a cruel joke now, for how could one wiggle something that one had no cognizance of possessing?

On his rushed departure from Africa, he had not considered the weather in Europe—had not considered much at all, actually—and had, as a result, brought only what he would have worn on the estate. Upon arriving in a late-autumnal Europe, his folly had been realized, but too late, and thus had he begun to freeze. He had frozen throughout the entire autumn and winter, been granted brief respite in the spring and summer, and now been launched back into the cold once more. Africa had spoiled him, with her hot weather, and the manor-house had as well, for its temperature was always well-maintained and kept comfortable. He could not recall feeling even slightly chilled, other than upon stepping from cooling bathwater or some other such minor nuisance.

Ironically, the only warming clothing he had kept had been gloves, and those he had discarded of quickly, for the purpose of allowing hands to go numb with cold, for they had pained him enough that it was judged more convenient to not know of their existence. He certainly did not wish for feeling to return to his hands, for he knew it would only give him the ability to feel their pain once more, but in order to complete his plans for this night, he would need them—and thus did he begin to blow on them, and rub them carefully together.

He had never allowed them to properly heal from their confrontation with the mirror. Unlike the scars coating the rest of his body, which had now become mere ghosts, his hands were still as gnarled and marred as if the incident had occurred only weeks ago—when, in truth, it had been only a little under two years. The first few crucial healing months had been spent mercilessly composing—which, of course, had granted the hands no rest whatsoever—and the remainder of his time since the mirror had been equally hard on the appendages, for he had been traveling Europe searching desperately for Christine.

And now, all his efforts, all his pains, all his patience, had been rewarded.

When his hands had been sufficiently heated, he withdrew the only item he had thought to bring with him upon his departure from Africa, when he had fled nearly a year ago: his violin. Deft fingers tuned the instrument, though it was with no small amount of pain. Quietly, he plucked the strings, to assure himself they were in tune—and, upon discerning that they were, he raised the instrument into position. The bow was set to rest upon the strings—and, as it was, he gritted his teeth at the fiery pain that the movement inspired in his hands. With nothing more than a clenched jaw to reveal his discomfort, he stood, to place himself and the instrument directly next to the little window, so that she who dwelled within would surely hear.

With no further ado, he began the _Resurrection of Lazarus_.

* * *

A quiet groan of appreciation accompanied the slow descent into the chair by the fire. Christine felt as if her every bone ached; not a muscle, not a ligament, not a thread of her being escaped the pain, though the thick cushions of the antique mahogany rocking chair—a sort of wedding gift granted to she and Raoul, years back—offered some relief. Thick candles, placed in strategic spots, were the only things to light the room other than the dying fire next to her chair. She wriggled her toes against the soft crimson, gold-fringed rug that lay beneath her feet, relishing in the sensation. 

The sound of tumbling wood clashed against her weary senses, and she turned her head—only to be rewarded by a sharp rebellion of neck muscles. A soft cry escaped her lips, drawing the attention of the wood-tumbler in question: a blue-eyed, curly-blonde-haired cherub seated upon the nearby floor.

"Mama? Are you alright?" he asked, in response to that murmur of pain; she nodded her head carefully, and one chocolate curl bounced against her cheek. It had somehow escaped the black ribbon that had tamed the rest of her hair; with a slight frown, she raised a hand to tuck it behind one dainty ear.

The child—Benedict, her oldest—did not quite look convinced; but, with the attention span of a seven year old, it did not take long for him to return his attention to the amusements at hand.

He looked quite a lot like his father, and even to look upon him pained Christine. She missed Raoul, so very much; her strong, golden-haired husband had taken his leave of them for the time being, to visit his sister, as he so often did. Christine had taken to allowing, with very little pleading, for Benedict and his younger brother, Levi, to sleep in her bed while their father was gone; without the warmth, without the fair curls to shimmer in the moonlight streaming in through her bedroom window, she felt too terribly alone with the night—and even now, even after all those years, if she were left alone, she felt as if she were actually not at all alone: she felt as if _he _was there.

So lost in her sorrowful musings about her husband's absence, she failed to recognize the violin's hiss until Benedict had called it to her attention. "Mama," he uttered, "what is that sound?" Her days at the Opéra Populaire, though long over, had nonetheless supplied her with the ability to discern the difference between instruments; that it was a violin was not at all in doubt. She stood, though it pained her to do so, and Benedict rushed to her side to grab hold of her skirt with a grip of iron. The violin's song continued unerringly. The melody...

"Benedict, my darling..." She took hold of his hand, and gently drew him towards her chair. Fear was forced from her mind, from her eyes, as she spoke to him, for her own concern would do nothing to comfort him. "Mama wishes for you to sit for a moment."

Her little angel immediately climbed within the chair and seated himself, though the slightest pout was beginning to form on his chubby face; he knew as well as any adult when he was being snubbed.

Legs aching with every step, she lifted a candle and migrated to the window that seemed to allow the violin admittance to their little haven of peace. The flame, however, only further impaired view of the outside; with a huff, the candle was set aside, and her hands and face pressed to the glass—though she was uncertain of whether she truly wished to see what specter had chosen to grace their home with his refrain. That debate ended quickly, however—only darkness and milky moonlight, reflecting off the early snows, was granted to her vision.

And then, the music began to dissipate. It did not quiet, so much as move away from the window. "Mais non! Mon pere!" Her hands pressed flat against the glass in urgency, before using that vantage-point to shove her away and towards the door. Rushed steps carried her nearly into the snow, before Benedict occurred to her; she spun, mouth ajar, as she groped for the correct words.

"Benedict... Mama must take leave for a brief moment; stay within the walls of the house. If Levi should awake, please attend to him." Again, motion urged her towards the exterior, and again she paused, to fling back within the confines: "I love you, Benedict."

Outside, the night was frigid. The curls of the glacial air whipped about her exposed limbs and made its descent in coils about her legs, easily slipping beneath the confines of her fragile skirts. Bare feet carried her down the stone steps and into the snow; the ice beneath her feet went almost unnoticed, so urgent was she to discover that tune. Its melody was hauntingly familiar, tugging at her heart and mind with an urgency she found herself incapable of resisting. She eased her way through the yard with delicate steps, entering finally the bare expanse of side-yard which the violin's purr still inhabited.

The notes twined their way into her ears, into her mind, and lodged themselves there where she found them to be inescapable—as was the memory! Her mind screamed, and her mouth mimicked the action, "Papa!"

Pain and aching wrapped their fingers around her limbs, as nature's inclement torturing took its toll. Her blood felt as if it had crystallized... but then, invisible notes caressed her pains, covering them with affectionate kisses before rocking them into silent slumber—or perhaps her body had finally succumbed to the dangerous numbness that lured so many to their deaths. Soothing, enrapturing, frightening—her pulse frenzied with a hushed beat and a wash of unexpected, cherished warmth.

A blanched hand, so cold that it felt inhuman, was pressed to her heaving chest. The music was haunting and arousing, as was the voice which nipped the tails of the last fading hiss of string upon string. The furious glacial wind snatched away those last notes and tossed them about before finishing them off, much like a piece of brittle driftwood bobbing about the hungry waves of murky water, before being wholly consumed.

Her mind went numb as thoroughly as had those bare limbs, and she came to an abrupt halt, as if the cold had snared her to the snow-feathered ground. That reaction—paralyzing fear, mixed with undeniable yearning—could have been provoked by only one being, and that she was well aware of. As if the thought had summoned him, he stepped from the shadow and into the feeble light cast from the window—and what a sight!

The violin and its bow hung, dejected, from fingers that appeared barely able to keep hold of them. His hair, once so finely cared for, was splayed in every direction, mutilated by the fingers of the north wind. Even in the dark could she see the haggardness of his form; that jawline, once so powerful, seemed no longer to be near as prominent. She supposed that could be contributed largely to the thick stubble of hair now crowning the left cheek and jaw. And he seemed tired, unbelievably tired; he was not nearly the suffocating, dangerous presence she recalled from Paris, and instinct told her that he would be even more of a mess than he had been in London.

Her eyes met his unnatural gaze, as his voice again reached out to her, vibrating her very soul with its yearning intensity. "Christine...?" She doubted that he questioned her identity, imagined that he was, rather, questioning her intent.

His eyes bored into her own, and then... and then the raging of memories began, memories that had not plagued her in London. The stagnant air of the depths of the Opéra Populaire easily replaced the crisp, frigid northern wind. Her soles perched not upon snow, but stony ground, and inky shadows curled around her with no light at all to speak of. She half-expected to hear the trickle of lapping waves upon the hidden shoreline.

Anger simmered in the frozen confines of her body—the abduction! The lies! They seemed horribly recent—as did the danger he once embodied, and still did. But as hurriedly as her feminine rage annoyed her thoughts, as a stubborn, curious child would tug upon the lapels of her skirts, so did she completely dismiss them as memories. They scampered past, showing what was left: a broken, beaten man, here for reasons that not even the Lord in Heaven could have possibly known—and not only that, but a near-frozen man as well.

No—she would not, could not allow the cold to devour her angel in the same way that despair and longing had. She stepped forward, though fear made a vain attempt at rooting her further. "Erik..." Eyes dropped to the icy ground as fear swept through her; even that simple name induced utter terror. She swallowed and forced her gaze upwards once more, and a statue-like hand motioned to the door behind her. "Shall we?"

She had not realized how stiffly he was holding himself until relief bid him relax. Shoulders sagged, and the violin's bow tumbled from his fingers. With a look of despair, he bent to lift it again, though his fingers struggled with the act. Once the item had been retrieved, he retreated into shadow, only to reappear moments later with only a violin-case in his hands. She wondered at the clumsiness of his hands, for even in impossible cold, the Phantom of the Opera had always seemed to have such total control over his movements...

She led him to the door, and was pleased to see that he waited patiently for her to enter first. She had taken only a few steps into the warmth and light, before realizing the fatal flaw in this action; Benedict's innocent eyes widened to a dangerous degree, as the tall, half-masked figure entered behind his mother. Her little angel—and it was only at that moment that she realized the irony behind her nickname for him—launched himself from the chair, and came flying into her arms.

"Mama!" he cried. "Who—?"

"Benedict," she said sternly, "I think perhaps it is time you went to bed."

He obviously considered pouting, and obviously thought better of it upon glimpsing her expression. With a solemn nod, he turned and exited; she listened for the sound of feet thumping upon the staircase, before turning to look at Erik.

He looked distraught. His eyes were glued to where last the child had been seen, and she watched as the color—shocking, that there was color to begin with!—drained from his cheeks. His eyes drifted from the doorway to her, though they did not fasten upon her face; instead, they fastened without hesitation upon her left hand. Shame rushed through her as she realized what he must have been looking at, and her right hand covered her left, in a vain attempt to vanish the ring from her third finger. She cleared her throat gently, before dropping her gaze to the floor of her home once more.

The shift in his attitude vibrated through the air, calling her to glance up at him once more. He had drawn himself up to his full height, and his expression shifted into that of old; the stern, confident expression that could so easily force her into submission. "Christine." His voice rang out through the room, and her knees trembled; its tone was of total disapproval. "Do you not know better, than to do such a thing to your voice?"

She ducked her head in apology, right hand tightening so powerfully on her left that the stone of Raoul's ring cut into her fingers. It was only a moment's time before the shift in the air was felt once more, and his presence lost its suffocating property; instead, he was once more the wisp—the, dare she risk the pun, _ghost_—of his former self.

The sound of the violin case dropping from his hand to crash against the floor caused her to jump; it was less than a heartbeat afterwards that capable arms closed around her, and tucked her against the darkness and the chill of his body. "Oh, my Christine!" was breathed against her hair, in between broken sobs. She was, of course, more than familiar with his possessive nature, but a voicing of such, under the circumstances, had not been expected. However horrified at his sudden thrusting of closeness, she complied with his wish to hold her, and even discovered that her own petite hands ached to return the endearment.

The exquisite cologne that was Erik's scent wafted towards her unsteady physique, and a sigh could not be restrained; his aroma was just as she had recalled from London: dark, musky, with a hint of spice.. though, this time the smell of the world beyond her walls was embedded into his worn and tattered attire. None of the death-scent of the opera days remained.

As though the physical contact had created a pathway for his anguish to curl its wicked fingers around her, she discovered that she could feel his pain as fully as she could feel his breath against her temple. Her blood burned into the walls of her veins, and she suddenly, severely, wished to hear him sing. Rather than request this of him, however, she allowed the words to dissolve into mental debris and brushed them aside with the broom of her motherly-like ways.

A hand rose, and rested lightly on the back of his neck, as the other came to hover beneath his shoulder-blades. "Erik..." She found her lips more than willing, this time, to utter that phrase, and as a result it came out less as a title, and more as a lovely caress...

She felt the dampness of tears against her cheeks, against her hair, and her hold on him tightened, and she felt his own hold over her become that much more certain of itself. He lingered in that embrace for another moment, before his body went rigid, and he made a hasty retreat. His body was torn from her arms, and he moved back to stand beside the violin-case. She politely cast her eyes aside as he scrubbed at the moisture beneath his left eye, and felt guilty upon feeling relieved that he did not remove his mask to attend to the right cheek.

"Forgive me," he said shakily, as hands rose to smooth back his hair; she tried her best to appear ignorant of the tremble in his voice. "That was not.. proper of me—" Though certainly Christine knew not a day when Erik _had _been proper. "I do not know what..."

His words were forever lost, as again his eyes fell upon her left hand. His lips settled into a grim line, and only silence yawned.

An ache was beginning to nestle its way into her chest, to bubble just beneath her heart and restrict her breathing. The candlelight made his dishevelment so much more painfully obvious; the thick, dark smudge beneath his eye; the wrinkles on his cheek that, she swore, had not been present in London; the gauntness to his cheeks and frame that she had not seen in London, but had always been characteristic of his days in the opéra-house; the intensity of the silvering hairs at his temples, and the occasional few sparkles of their siblings scattered throughout his raven locks.

Her Angel, her _true _Angel, needed comfort, and she intended to give him whatever she could.

Her mind groped for something to offer, before settling on the easiest thing: food. It was something that could be granted with little to no trouble, and yet could still make an earth-shaking difference in his current state. That he needed food was without doubt; that he was hungry, that he would eat, however...

Well, she supposed there was only one way to find out. "Perhaps.. you would care for a meal?" The words were spoken delicately; even now, she feared that any tiny phrase, however innocent, could be misspoken and construed as some devastating insult, which could have resulted in tragedies that she cared not to contemplate.

As she watched him thinking through her question, she began to understand just how ravaged he had truly become. Her expression melted, changing from one of gentle sympathy to one of utmost pity—and another emotion lingered there, just beneath the surface, lingering in dark corners that she refused to acknowledge. She formed her face into a pout, furrowing her brows to camouflage that forbidden lust that threatened to overwhelm her, if she did so much as acknowledge its presence.

And then came the question that shook her resolve, that turned her from firm denial to withering tears: "Where is your hus—" He choked on the word, and took a long moment to collect himself, before trying again. "..husband?"

Her mouth gaped open, as sobs threatened to spill from her throat—and, instead, only pained silence ensued. Tears welled in her eyes, burning them, burning her porcelain cheeks, shaming her. There she stood before him, sobbing and trembling uncontrollably, the same child that she had been in the past. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face into the crook of his neck, and wrapping her arms tightly around that self-same appendage. She wanted to reply, wanted to say something—anything—to distract from her breakdown, but could find no words, except one, that she barely managed to emit.

"Erik..!"

He did not return the endearment at first. He went rigid in her arms, like a wooden board, and stood with deathly stillness. She could feel that suspicious anger easily enough; suddenly, he frightened her. She very nearly recoiled from the adamantine specimen that she had so foolishly thought to embrace—but then, an iron-like band of an arm encircled her, and his form relaxed, melded with her own. She was easily convinced to remain in place, and shut her eyes against the cold skin of his throat.

"Shh, Christine," he whispered against her hair. "Do not weep..." One hand settled itself in her curls, while the other tucked around her waist. His lips pressed a gentle kiss to her hairline, before his cheek was allowed to rest against the top of her head. Quiet notes of a gentle hum reached her ears, and she tightened against him so that not a sliver of air was left between them. That voice twined around her senses, wooing her into the same blind trust that it always did—trust, and something more, the same something from before.

It occurred to her what a horrid scenario would play itself out, if Raoul had come home at that moment—she did not even wish to think of the destruction that would result in a frenzied clash between the two men.

"Mama?"

The fan of arousal that had guiltily breathed life into her, for that singular moment, suddenly vanished from her mind. She grew as stiff as Erik had been moments ago, and struggled to force herself to pry herself free of his grasp—despite how vulnerable and frightened he left her feeling, she could not help but to want to linger there in that strong grasp. She turned slowly, feet as heavy as if imps had poured cement around her ankles. Her heart felt equally weighted, and dropped into the pit of her stomach as her eyes found Benedict, standing on the stairs, peering at them with quiet fury.

Erik stood looking at the boy for a moment, before folding his arms across his chest and pacing across the room, to peer around at the knick-knacks on her tables, and the paintings on her walls. She watched him warily for a moment, before turning to face her son.

"Yes, my darling?"

"Levi has woken up."

Levi should certainly have made his own shaky descent down the stairs, now; "Well," she asked slowly, "where is he?"

Benedict crossed his arms, and rolled his eyes with exasperation. "He refuses to get out of bed. He thinks there's a beast hiding beneath it." Those eyes, previously so childishly rolled, were now narrowed in jealous contempt, in Erik's direction.

Christine followed that gaze, allowing her eyes to linger on the dark form of the man thawing himself by her fire, before clearing her throat and addressing him. "Please, excuse me for a moment." Her eyes flicked back to Benedict, before again returning to Erik. "I shan't be long; please, feel free to seat yourself, or fetch some food from the kitchen." With that said, she clutched her skirts between her fingers and made her ascent of the stairs.

She found Levi huddled into his mass of silken pillows. His comforter was drawn close about his small body, though as soon as she opened the door, it flew back, and he cried out in a panic-stricken note, "Mama!"

"Oh, my precious, do not fret..." she cooed, as she hastened towards the frightened child and swept him up into her ivory-skinned arms. One hand smoothed untamed auburn spirals, as she continued that gentle purr: "Mama is here, shhh..."

"Monster with big teeth is hiding under my bed!" Sniffling noisily, he embraced his mother, whose arms were whining in a dismal, complaining chorus of throbbing. Fatigue encompassed her mind, slowing it to less than full-speed.

"Levi—" Tendrils of cold seeped between mother and son, as she withdrew from him, to harvest complete attention from the rattled toddler. Naïve, accepting eyes searched her face, shocking blue boring into deep chocolate. A curl was abandoned, straying to rest upon her shoulder; no sooner had he seen it, than he took it with a tiny hand and toyed with it. "Do you trust your mama?"

A flushed face nodded in response.

"I promise you, darling.. there is no monster beneath your bed." She regarded him for a moment with warmth, before planting a tender kiss upon the warm flesh of his forehead. "Sleep." And he did.

Fingers sought her temple and massaged it as she carefully trekked to the top of the stairs. She paused there, listening to the voices floating upwards.

"And what is your name?" –That, a deep, angelic voice, that even in simple speech could woo her into quiet dreaming.

Her son's tenor followed: "My name, _sir_—" The pronoun was laden with obvious intended insult. "—is Benedict de Chagny."

She heard a few heavy footfalls, as Erik moved across the living room floor. A long silence ensued, before she heard the sounds of the violin-case being lifted and set upon the table. It opened—more silence—and then shut again.

"And who, might I ask, are you, sir?"

Christine pressed a palm to her chest, as if in hope of containing her aching heart. Her little son sounded far too much like his father. It made her ache for Raoul, but also made her fear for the child. Erik had never felt kindly towards the Vicomte; why should he feel kindly towards his mirror image?

"I, your _lordship_—" She was almost relieved, to find that Erik was still himself enough to fight back against the previous insult. "—am..." He hesitated. She strained forwards, nearly toppling down the stairs, as she fought to hear his next words. It was a long moment of tense silence, before his voice drifted up the stairs once more: "I am the Angel of Music."

Christine launched herself down the stairs, making as composed an entrance as she could, while still making it before Benedict had time to react to those words. Erik seemed relieved at her return, though Benedict was still the same little ball of fury that he had been when she left.

"I apologize," she said graciously. "My youngest had a nightmare."

Erik's eyes were fastened onto the violin case; Benedict's were darting between mother and stranger.

"Mama, this man thinks he is an angel!" he cried out after a moment.

Before she could answer, Erik's face snapped up to hers, and with a fierce determination, he said, "You should have had daughters."

A hand rose to press its back against her forehead. How did one reply to such a thing? Anger rose in her, dread nipping at its heels. She dropped her hand to her side, and put on a pained smile. "Perhaps you are hungry, Er—" The eyes of her blonde cherub flamed, as if she had committed a sin against him, against his father, merely by abandoning the use of the man of utter disarray's proper title. Thus did she complete her query: "Monsieur?"

Erik stared at her, eyebrow slowly drawing towards the edge of his mask. Finally, with a flicker of a glance at her son, he merely shook his head. "No, Madame. I am.. quite satisfied. I thank you, however, for such a kind offer."

A frown turned her lips down. She was quite positive that Erik needed to eat—he was far below the healthy weight he had carried in London, back to the old opera-house weight. Lower lip was pinned between upper and lower rows of pearly teeth, as she considered his form once more. He needed a bath, a clean set of clothes, and a shave. Raoul could supply him with two out of three; Erik was too tall, too broad-shouldered, and too, too thin, for Raoul's clothing. A flicker of remembrance followed that train of thought, and she glanced over to Benedict. "To bed, my darling."

As the protest charged from his throat in a crusade of hope—hope that he would be able to further survey the cryptic existence of a man who seemed to have been fathered by the shadows of the night, and mothered by the north wind—Christine severed the rebellion, momentarily, with a word: "Benedict."

"But, mother!" The term "mama" was discarded as the boy's agitation grew.

"Benedict, please. To bed." A palm pressed to her forehead; the flesh was heated. Utterly exhausted, her legs trembling with weakness, as if awaiting the opportune moment to crumble and collapse. Christine stood between the proximity of both stubborn males, and her fingers found a nearby object—the table. She fought to stand steadily.

She again felt that anger rising in him like a thundercloud, even before he had cleared his throat so mightily—it never occurred to her to rebuke him for doing just the thing he had chided her for.

One threatening step was taken towards the pair, and with a steadily-growing scowl, Erik looked down on the boy-child. "The hour grows late," he said sternly. "Time for little boys to be in bed, as your mother has so wisely pointed out." His eyes glinted, while he said "little boys"—it was his retribution for the earlier "sir" that he apparently felt was still unpaid-for.

Bristling with contempt, the child returned the scowl. "You're not my father!" Like a brick wall he stood upon his small legs, will and brutal defiance contaminating his blood and clouding his mind. He stepped towards his distraught mother.

"Darling.. please!" Christine foresaw the horror that further retorts from Benedict could evoke, and it was, in all of its entirety, the last thing she desired. Never being one to command others, she only knew how to supplicate humbly. "Please.. Benedict.." Frustration paraded itself about as a film of tears over her widened eyes—unshed, awaiting further coaxing.

A deathly stillness settled over Erik. She risked a glance up at him, and found all the familiar emotions dancing in his eyes: pain, anger, betrayal. And, most frightening of all, cold amusement. "No," he answered after a moment, "I am not your father. I would never presume to act as such." His eyes met Christine's, and she felt as if she would faint. "If I were your father," he continued, with more volume, "you impertinent youth, I'd have grabbed you by your hair and dragged you up the stairs, for so rudely ignoring your mother's requests." He took a breath, and she felt his temper smooth over a bit. "Your own mother is begging you, and still you ignore her wishes? Perhaps it should occur to you that your mother may have a better idea than you, of how to keep things in this house peaceful."

It was a clumsily-veiled threat, and certainly not the way one should speak to a young child—but then, Christine imagined that Erik was no longer speaking to a boy. He was speaking to Raoul incarnate. She could nearly see the murderous hatred in his eyes, just beneath that façade of calm.

Christine rushed to Benedict's side, fingers gripping the sensitive area above his elbow, and she crouched, to bring her face close to his own. Corralling his attention by their closeness, she whispered, her voice forceful, yet as gentle as she could make it. "Benedict.. Go to bed."

With a glistening of neat blonde hair and a last detesting glance tossed toward the towering man that he so despised, Benedict nodded curtly before turning on his heel and taking leave of his beloved mother. Her relief at his departure was expressed in a great sigh, as her palm rose to meet her forehead once more. Locating the nearest chair, she collapsed in it and rubbed her delicate face with just as delicate hands. Her mass of copper ringlets smoothed idly as she emitted another weak sigh. "Erik..." Raising her face, her line of vision collided with his own, dark brows raised in concern and disapproval.

"Erik," she repeated, shaking her head. The coils she had disciplined were resurrected, defiantly returning to their former spots. Her eyes locked with his momentarily, and she bit down on her lip. She was wholly at a loss for words.

He watched her for a moment, before moving to kneel beside the chair. Such large, rushed steps in her direction—it was all she could do not to cry out, or worse, recoil from his touch. Ice-cold hands swept her own into their grasp, and he bowed his head reverently over her hands as if they were holy artifacts. In a voice that sounded sufficiently remorseful, he uttered his apologies:

"Forgive me, Christine. I did not mean to be so... I could not bear to see you... I could not help myself." His tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he raised his head to look at her in shameless hope.

For just a moment, she considered denying him the forgiveness that she had always granted him in the past. It seemed that nearly every crime was forgiven, supplied with enough begging on his part. Her lips parted in dull stun, as he uttered those words. Threads of her heart were toyed with by his pleadings, the gentle coaxing of his heavenly voice, the entreaties swinging upon the strings like children at a playground; oh, how she hated caring for him! And how she adored it... Tilting her head to the side, curls cascading, her large eyes studied his face thoughtfully. Empathy crinkled her thin brows, and her lips formed a rouge pout. "I forgive you, Erik..."

She watched as he considered her hands, before releasing them as if they had burned him, and tucking his hands against his stomach. He cradled them there, looking all the part of a wounded animal, as he rocked back on his heels and then slowly stood. "You look exhausted," he said simply. "Perhaps you should retire, for the evening."

Christine was fully in accordance with that suggestion, and stood up, nodding to express her agreement. "Follow me, if you will," she murmured, before leading him to a hallway that branched in the opposite direction of the ingress that led to the kitchen. Standing in the frame of the dark hallway, she paused to gesture to him with a beckoning finger. "I hope you'll find the room comfortable," she said loudly, to allow him to hear her.

She could see him, moving about in the living room, fetching his violin. He stared at the case handle for a moment, before shaking his head a bit and scooping it up into his arms. Her eyes dropped to his hands, but she could tell nothing, while he was in motion. She made a slight note to herself, to get a closer look at them in the near future. Clutching the case to his chest like a child carries its favorite stuffed toy, he caught up with her, looking at her somewhat expectantly. "I am sure," he told her as they walked, "that it will be far more than satisfactory."

Distancing herself from the warm, illuminated living room, she approached a door lurking in the far end of the passage. The knob was cool beneath her sensitive fingertips, and squealed as it was turned. The tips of her other hand were placed upon the expanse of glazed wood comprising the door, and she pressed—it opened easily enough. The air was cool and it embraced her face in icy coils of a forgotten greeting; with a quick step to the side, she cleared the entryway, so that he could peer or step within the chamber.

The corners of her delicate mouth curved upward as she shifted her gaze from the shadows of the guestroom to his face. "If you should need anything, notify me." She nodded. "I should rest now—I'm feeling rather ill." He responded with nothing more than a nod. Brushing easily past him—for though the hallway was small, her frame was lithe—she halted in her hushed footsteps.

Upon turning, her eyes scrounged the inky black for his own; when they fastened, she added, "Goodnight, Erik." Lingering eyes grazed his features for a moment longer. He still frightened her, though she somehow felt rooted to the ground by the blackened vines of a wicked desire. A hand rose to press against the side of her face, and she shook her head at her own mad thoughts. Then, with a rustle of fabric, she faced her original direction and headed to her bedroom, where she could instead sate her exhausted desire for slumber.


	11. The Amnesty of Angels

The Amnesty of Angels

The obnoxious triumphing of brass instruments hauled his groggy mind into wakefulness, driving him to sit up. He felt warm and sticky; too long, he'd slept in these clothes. His hand rose, to discover that he'd slept with his mask on. His left side ached; he had fallen asleep on that side, and never moved once. When Christine had left him, he had had little mind left to do anything other than lie down and rest. He had thought he was kidding himself, if he expected to get any rest, knowing that she was so close by—however, the real joke had been assuming that a body that had been pushed far, far over its limits for the past year would not fall into something very near to a coma, as soon as it had encountered soft mattress beneath it.

Erik swung his legs over the side of the bed slowly, attempting to rise as cautiously as possible. His hands itched; he opened them slowly, stopping before he had fully spread them out. The skin had healed too tightly; he could neither open them completely, nor clench them completely. With a frown, he worked his hands open and shut until they ached with the motion, and then raised them to smooth his hair into place. A few steps took him to the window, and guardedly he drew the curtain back.

The sunlight ran one finger across his cheek like a lover's caress—as if he had anything to relate it to. It was early morning, but morning nonetheless. With a quiet groan, he turned, and moved to the door to the guestroom. Slowly, he opened the door, trying to move as slowly and quietly as possible. He stuck his head out, eyes searching for any sign of life around the house.

The loud thump of heel upon wood floor was heard, followed by a groan. Erik slipped through the door and followed the sound, rounding a corner and discovering Christine straining with a door that appeared to be stuck. He watched her for a moment, before softly asking, "Christine? Are you.. in need of assistance?"

Christine jumped—obviously, she had not heard his approach—before turning to look at him. "You just.. you frightened me, a bit.. ah.." She waved a hand as if to dismiss the matter, and then tucked a curl of hair behind one tiny ear. He listened to her intently, as if afraid of losing a precious commodity, should a single syllable be misplaced. It was not the words that he savored, but the voice that spoke them—the words were merely a consequence. "It's quite stubborn. The hinges are rusted. Raoul—we use the alternate linen closet, you see.. so this one goes rather.. unused..." The remaining innocent note dissolved into awkward silence, before a quick step brought her free of his path.

One stride brought him to stand directly in front of the door. He took a slight breath, before wrapping both hands around the knob. Combined, they gave him the same amount of strength that a single hand once would have. Willing them to remain strong, he turned the knob, and rocked back on his heels. With one yank, the door flew open. Balance was nearly sacrificed; only a quickly-placed foot stopped him from tumbling backwards.

He pried his fingers loose of the knob, and stepped away from the door. One hand gestured towards it in a grand motion, as if he were presenting her with a prize.

oOoOoOoOo

Christine peered meekly into the closet, her head nodding. "Thank you," she breathed, eyes averted from him. The thuds of her heart resonated within her, ricocheting off her inner walls and jarring her delicate composure. That display of brutal strength... He had seemed so incapable of such, the night before. Surely, that was what had frightened her... She gave herself a mental pat on the back—no need to fret, he'd merely had a good night's rest! The previous night, he would hardly have been able to lift Benedict from the floor.

Her thoughts darted to those two tiny angels, a moment of panic being inspired only moments before being quelled. Surely, they were both still sleeping; it had only been a short time since last she had offered a motherly gaze into their bedchambers. Both slept as heavily as Raoul—they would fail to arise before midday, if they were left undisturbed.

The uneven threading of soft towels was plush against her fingertips as she lifted the largest one perched upon one of the elderly shelves. With a quick backwards step and the soft click of the door returning to its prior position, her gaze aligned with his. The color of her cheeks immediately became identical to the rouge of the towel she now held clamped to her breast. "I.. thought you'd like to bathe, before breakfast..."

Erik studied her for a moment, before a slight smile was forced, and his head bowed a bit. "Yes, Madame... A bath would be.. much appreciated, I think." His eyes lowered to her chest, with a slightly expectant expression. What was he looking at?

She had nearly forgotten about the towel's placement, and had recalled the horrid rouge as his gaze first fell from hers. "Oh!" She thrust it forward in a child-like manner. "I... Um, this way." Her skirts twirled around her legs as she abruptly shifted directions, footsteps dragging up the glazed stairs rooted in the living room. "Forgive me, Eri—... Forgive me, Monsieur, but the bathroom on the first floor fails to work. The plumbing is rusted."

Her tongue burned with the desire to speak his name, as often as she could, but her face darkened with thoughts of hurting Raoul as soon as the yearning made itself known. The betrayal of her husband gnawed upon her conscience the moment she looked upon her guest. Perhaps, if she refused to acknowledge his presence excessively, he would disappear? Saying his name, inhaling that musky scent—even a glance upon his features dusted off memories she repressed to the depths of her mind. And that voice...

The heavy hammer of guilt brought its metal down hard on those thoughts, murdering them. Quite suddenly heated, Christine brought a hand to her pale forehead as she neared the door opening off of the hallway. Sunny rays hugged her features, warming the gentle curves of her face. They successfully invaded the premises through nearby windows; she had wanted it that way the moment they had unpacked their bags and made the hidden home a part of the de Chagny family. Darkness...

Darkness was not welcome in her home.

Venturing through her own elegant chamber, she brought Erik through it and to the bathroom she had, herself, used that very morning. When she turned to speak to him, she found him standing halfway through the bedroom, staring darkly at the bed. When finally he did move to continue after her, she found his eyes again focused on her left hand.

Trying to ignore that obvious message, she managed a smile, and spoke. "Here, there is every bathing-applicable item imaginable, housed beneath—and above—the sink..." Her hand fell from her forehead to gesture towards the sink, and the cupboards lurking above and beneath it. She bowed her head and made a quick retreat, not desiring to make herself an obstacle.

She had nearly escaped, when he called out to her. "Wait!" The painful urgency of that voice rooted her to the ground, and forced her head to turn to look at him, though she kept her body aimed somewhat away from him, to make her intentions clear.

"I... Well." With a slightly reddened left cheek, the Phantom advanced on her, hands meekly held in front of him. "I.. need to shave, Madame." Those hands were presented to her for inspection, and she turned to observe the trembling limbs. "I.. do not think I can manage, on my own," he finished, voice muffled with an obvious mortification.

"Well..." She surveyed the greying hands; apparently, the terrible weather had been more of a nuisance to him than he had allowed her to believe. Eyes did not linger long enough to see the gruesome scars upon those appendages; they were already rising, to focus on the raven hair that very nearly brushed the tops of his shoulders. "Perhaps," she offered gently, "after you have bathed, I can tidy you up a bit?"

He seemed to recall something, and glanced back towards the tub. "Oh. Yes, yes, Madame. That would.. be much appreciated. I offer my thanks." Without another breath, he tucked his hands tightly against his stomach, and kicked the door shut in her face.

With a sigh, she turned to leave. She went first to the children's room, standing and watching them for a long and quiet moment, before abandoning them to their dreams. That long reverie had supplied her with sufficient dreams of Raoul to distract her, as she began breakfast for she and her guest.

She had barely even begun, before a silvery voice began to caress the depths of her soul and raise it to unnatural heights. Fright was stirred, but not awoken, and she found her hand lifting to press itself against her chest. Eyes wide, though unseeing, she stood statue-like, body and mind attuned totally to that chime of notes. "Christine...?"

Christine Daaé. Her.

A taunting shimmer accompanied the mist of enchantment that lingered about her mind. The innocent calling was like a mocking mermaid, beckoning a sailor with her song—with _his _song. What would happen to her, if she returned to him? Would he force her once more into that abyss, those black depths, or would she dance with him in sunlight, in free air?

A wary gait, though at first a grudging one, led her into the ever-familiar room upstairs. The semi-veiled face which greeted her presence brought her eyebrows together in a furrow of concern and confusion. A few steps neared her to him, immediately ceasing as she caught sight of large expanses of glistening damp flesh beneath that head. With a horrified expression, she dropped her head, and choked out, "Y-yes?"

The door was cast aside, and one hand gestured her within. Still blushing furiously, she obeyed, and was somewhat relieved to find that he had at least wrapped a towel around his waist. "I apologize," he was saying, "but I don't..." The hand that still clutched the towel clenched until its knuckles were white, as he groped for words. The Opera Ghost, at a loss for words? She could not help but raise her eyes in curiosity.

"I can't very well put that trash back on, can I?" he said at last, hand thrusting towards his pile of discarded clothing. The words were harsh, but the tone... He seemed to lack the heart for a biting tone.

Her eyes followed that hand, to find the tattered black mass that lay upon the floor. _He must think me a half-wit! _she thought with another blush, as she scooped the clothing into her arms. Her nose wrinkled a bit as she walked them across the room and dumped them in a corner. A shirt and trousers were then retrieved from the bureau in the room's corner. They were nowhere near perfect fits, but from what she could see of the thinness of his torso, he would be able to make do.

She progressed towards him once more, handing him the clothing. As she did so, her eyes could not help but brush across that broad expanse of flesh. Strong shoulders, well-defined physique... Well-defined _everything_. Obviously, his new lifestyle called for exercise. He even had a bit of sun-kiss still lingering on his skin. Her gaze lowered, across his chest, scattered with wiry black hairs—across his stomach, where ribs peeked through the skin on either side of his steely muscles—across the trail of hair that led past his belly button, down beneath that towel. Her gaze followed that path, until it met with the textured cloth. Without any genuine desire to know, her thoughts questioned what lay beneath sight...

_Rubbish! _her conscience snarled. _Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish!_ Her thoughts were rubbish! They were as tattered and uncomely as the clothes which were gathered in a heap of lost elegance upon the floor. Unconsciously, she turned the glittering ring that hugged her wedding finger, as a smoldering glare of self-scolding burned into the floor.

What a horrid wife she was turning out to be!

They parted company again, to grant him time to dress himself, and Christine slumped down on the mattress to chastise herself. A man was stripping and adorning himself in her husband's attire behind that thin barricade of wood—a man who had caused she and her husband more trouble than they had imagined possible. How upset Raoul would be, if he were to trod into _his _bedroom at this moment, and discover his _rival _wearing _his _clothes, using _his _bedroom, and spending time alone with _his _wife and _his _children...

Surely, her beloved would be maddened with jealousy!

Diamonds pressed into the flesh of her nervous, squeezing fingertips, as her dark brows furrowed again. The door creaked open, and she smothered him with an expectant gaze—with a hint of surprise. He cleaned up quite well, even considering that he appeared to have not shaved in.. _quite _a while.

His sing-song voice molded itself into an innocent request. "Christine? I... What you suggested? The.. shave, and..? If it isn't an inconvenient time..."

She nodded, and stood. "Of course, Erik. We can do that immediately." The corners of her delicate pout curved upward, mocking a grin, as her fear and loathing were brushed aside momentarily by her urge to attach teasing words to the end of the statement: "The full moon has passed, after all."

A moment of fear was known; her cheeks burned, and the hairs on the back of her neck perked a little, at the thrill of jesting with such a man. Not only was it frightening, but.. exciting.. to mock a man who seemed able to be enraged at any mention at all to his appearance. Though, with a lovely display of teeth, he had smiled! She had been granted his happiness, as weary as the grin may have been, and this settled within her in the form of warm comfort. That smile... It was one of the few times he had truly, genuinely smiled at her, out of any real humor.

Even almost without knowing it, she took that moment, and snuggled it safely into her heart, where she kept other such truly cherished moments, and it was only a single heartbeat before she realized that she would recall that gentle smile for many years to come.

It was only one more heartbeat before she realized that her heart held far more memories of Erik than she had thought.

It was only one _more _heartbeat before she realized that Erik held prominence in that heart. Her heart's memories of him were in vast number, and well-worn; had they been books, they would have been in need of a new binding.

Apparently, her heart perused them far more often than her mind was informed of.

"Monsieur, if you would take a seat?" One hand gestured to the toilet, for lack of any better perch to hand him. Erik seemed to hesitate, before moving to obey her direction. Christine moved to the sink and the cabinets associated with it, and began withdrawing from those cabinets a razor and an indigo jar. A cloth, also, was drawn out, and soaked in heated water. Her fingers twisted the cloth and wrung out the excess water.

"There are not any old grudges, still held, that I need to know about, are there?"

She turned to face him, brows crinkling together. His eyes were quite firmly fastened upon the razor on the sink. With an attempt to hide the hurt now welling up in her chest, she asked, "Whatever do you mean, Monsieur?"

Erik gave a single sharp note of nervous laughter, as his eyes rose to find her own. "Nothing, Madame—a.. weak attempt at humor, I suppose. Carry on." A slight smile was offered, before his eyes turned forward.

Her mind was stroked with the gentle hand of relief, and a sigh slipped from between her lips—humor! It had been solely in jest! What man was this, to shower her with such sweet words of mockery, with so little trace of bitterness? Certainly, it was not the Opera Ghost! Smiling to herself, she advanced on him, fingers tipping his chin back.

"You have.. done this before?" he asked, tone deceptively mild.

"Why yes, I have," she answered, face flushing with a somewhat happy memory. With a smile, she continued, "Raoul was repairing the roof, and took a fall. He broke his arm, and I..." Dread filled her suddenly, and she looked down, cheeks blanching. "I... Um..."

Cold terror reigned, even after he granted her neutrality of expression and a simple, quiet gesture of supplication for her to continue with her task. Hands shaking, threatening to drop their contents, she swallowed hard and forced her eyes to find his face—already, his eyes were closed, his features set in patient await of her actions.

She had only just begun to set that moist, heated cloth upon his skin, when her eyes encountered a barrier—one that she hated to mention.

However, it was one that gave her no choice.

"Erik..." Her eyes begged him the same mild acceptance he had just granted to her tale of Raoul. "Erik, the mask..."

Both eyes opened, and his head immediately leveled. His eyes flicked up to her at the same moment that his lips curled in an angry snarl; with one hand protectively covering the mask, he spoke in shaky tones—the shake, resulting directly from his attempt to not yell the words—"N-no hair grows there—" (accompanied by a slight blush) "—y-you need not remove it." His eyes fell to the tops of his knees, and when he spoke again, his voice was more subdued; almost, defeated. "You... can work around it, can you not?" A hopeful tone, but at the same time, filled with despondency.

Retreating steps carried her back across the bathroom, shaking hands nearly dropping the razor. "Erik," she whispered, in begging tones. She would not remove the mask—she had learned her lesson, by now, about removing masks. His own pitiful tones seared her heart, but she could not work around the mask. He would have to face his fears.

The hand covering the mask began to tremble, as slowly its fingers slipped beneath the mask's edges and pried it off. Keeping his right side angled away from her, he bent and set the mask upon the floor, before slowly straightening. Relief flooded through her, and she stepped towards him. Still attempting to fight back fear—for her instincts were certain that, the moment her regard should fall upon his face, she should find fingers (or worse yet, that wicked twine) wrapped about her throat—she reached forward and tipped his head back again. His own eyes closed tightly, pain and shame written all over his face—he acted as a shunned child, fearing the consequences of exposing himself.

Slowly, she began to spread the shaving cream about his face, as if decorating a cake. Then came the long, graceful swoops of the razor, tracing along his jaw and the underside of his neck. The fingers of her other hand she allowed to stray where they needed to, though she did not let them remain for any longer than they had to. Once, they passed across that much-hated flesh upon his right half, pressing against it with no hesitation.

She felt him go stiff beneath her fingers, but tried her best to ignore it.

Childish eyes wandered towards the small window, contemplating the day. It was unseasonably warm out, and sunny; perhaps she could take the children out for a romp, before supper. It was in this moment of distraction that the razor chose to cut its own path, and delved deep into the skin of his throat.

"Christ!" He jerked away from her, nearly tumbling off the side of his perch as he did so. One hand was already flying up to hover tentatively above the wound—barely that; more of a scratch—and a single finger reached forward to touch against it. His eyes raised to look at her with something akin to pain—like a dog who had, through no fault of her own, had its trust in her betrayed.

The razor clattered to the floor and slid beneath the bathtub in a streak of metal. A cry of alarm rang out nearly in chorus with his own exclamation, and as she did so she retreated multiple steps backwards. A quivering hand was held over her mouth and tears brimmed those large eyes, glinting in a threatening manner—they were soon to be shed. Warm streaks of salty moisture made their way down her cheeks as she stood far back, observing the damage she had unintentionally dealt. That hurt gaze he so artfully wielded sliced through her frail heart; as guilt welled up in her, threatening to take far too powerful a hold, she rushed forward to hand him a towel, though her hand trembled with the thought of that towel being used to pull her down to certain death.

He was half on and half off his seat, legs splayed to supply him with sufficient amount of support. Barely did he have room to reach for the towel; the slightest overbalance, after all, and he would go tumbling. As a result, he only reached as far as he had to, before managing to snatch an edge between his fingertips. That tiny vantage point was employed to nearly rip the object from her hand, and he immediately retreated in on himself, to press the towel against the spot where it most hurt.

Those eyes raised to her, dropped, raised again, dropped again—finally, they locked onto her own, and he asked in a trembling voice, "Did you.. do that on.. on purpose?"

Her cheeks went deathly pale, the words bringing on a weighty sickness in her stomach. Feeling as though words were not enough to express her utter regret, she bowed her head—his wounded attention seemed too much of a weight upon her shoulders. "No, Erik," she whispered. "I would never..."

The sound of the cloth slapping against the sink brought her eyes upwards. He had resettled in his seat, and was now waving a hand in the air in an attempt to dismiss the matter. "Christine... I know you would not..." There was a long moment of silence, as that hand attempted to find the words that his mouth could not. Finally, "Please. I beseech you, Madame, to continue..."

She forced a nod, lips ajar in a hurt pout. Bending easily down and offering a searching hand, the razor blade found its way easily within her grasp, and with an uncrinkling of skirts and a toss of hair, she rose. A meek step forward brought her to him once again. Frowning, she ushered his head gently back into its prior position, and once more the blade danced upon his flesh; he was tense beneath that blade, his breaths shallow and tightly-controlled. Bumps, she found, were not uncommon... He had quite a few. They rose in white mockery of his otherwise tanned flesh. Inquiring warily, her voice nearly broke: "Erik.. What are these—" She pressed a finger down upon one of the roughly-healed gashes. "—from?"

A sigh was breathed through his nose, and combined with the tone of his voice, his aversion to the task of answering her question was made easily obvious. "I... A mirror. Henri said.. things.. and Elizabeth..." He shrugged. "I could not... I do not... I... broke the mirror. With... my hands. And then..." Another shrug, this time performed by only one shoulder. Christine listened with rapt attention, mind focused in more on "Elizabeth" than the rest of his gruesome tale. "I lost consciousness, and.. the glass was.. everywhere on the floor... and the.. the blood..."

He stopped, and cleared his throat roughly. "No matter. Elizabeth stitched me up well and fine, and.. well, I'm not much worse for wear, I suppose." He attempted to chuckle, but failed miserably.

One word continued to echo through her mind. Elizabeth? Eyebrows immediately furrowed into a twisted string of auburn, and the blade lifted from his foam-smothered face; she had learned to lower sharp objects from her guest's neck when her focus strayed. Regarding him with all the pain and betrayal of a three year old who had been punished for the first time, she frowned. "Elizabeth?" Rather heavily, the hammer of jealousy raised and slammed with fierce intensity upon her lovely heart. He would not have another songbird—he could not! She would not allow it!

He seemed to take a long time choosing his words, fighting with the desire to say something, choosing against it, and then immediately allowing it to spill forth once his lips parted. "Oh, no one of any—Christine!" he cried. "I am so sorry! I hate her, I hate her! I swear it!" His head raised to allow him to regard her, and his hands closed around her own. Those hands were warm and strong, like a thick twine of flesh about her fragile wrists. "She is no one to.. to... Oh, I hate that I heard her sing, and I hate that I sang for her! I did not want to—I wanted to sing for you! I wanted so badly to sing with you, and her voice was.. a little like yours..." Typical Erik, his speech strayed: "Much too rough though, I am afraid..."

Pleading, those eyes bore into hers with such brutal longing that she dared not look away. But he had sang for her, this Elizabeth! Christine knew very well she had no place to feel hurt, but it seemed inevitable. Her heart ached, and she felt suddenly weak. The air of the room which seemed to suitable was suddenly frigid; even more frigid upon her wrists, when he pried his hands free and pushed them back into his lap. A careful breath was taken, and she raised the blade once more. "I have but a little more to finish," she said in her coldest of tones.

A nod was granted to her, and his head once again raised, his eyes once again closed. Christine looked down tenderly upon that face, as a hand lifted to rest against the right half of his face. Her fingers pressed into the rejected flesh of his cheek; she ignored the strained breath that he emitted, as she drilled her scattered focus—nearly as difficult as directing sunlight with pivoting mirrors. The blade smoothed around his jawline, the foam cascading to the side and exposing the weathered flesh. It then meandered about his left temple, shaping the dark sideburns accordingly, before taking leave of him. "Finis, Monsieur." Turning, she had brought herself to face the glistening sink, where she then proceeded to rinse of the materials accordingly.

A violet towel, hanging idly from a polished bar of silver protruding obnoxiously from the wall near the bath, was then brought to him. She held it out before her sheepishly after thrusting it in his direction. He had sung for her, for another girl! There was pain—the dull throb of heartache was all too familiar. Erik took the towel from her, and began cleaning his face. Perhaps she was a prettier, more able girl—oh, what nonsense! She was making a child of herself! Her eyes not only avoided his out of shame, but also weary defeat. She most certainly had no place to be disgruntled, after all; her place was next to Raoul, not bristling before Erik in a flurry of immaturity.

Slowly, Erik stood, one hand extending towards her, its fingers clutching the towel. Her senses brushed aside previous thoughts of jealousy, as every inch of her became solely attuned to him. "Thank you, Mada..." His voice suddenly took on far more suggestive tones, and instead he finished off the words with, "Christine." He purred those two syllables, forcing them to become something much more beautiful than they were. One hesitant step carried him further in her direction.

That beautiful voice caressing her senses, combined with that graceful movement jarring her thoughts far from the proper and pure, forced her eyes to raise to his. The deep thuds of an excited heart echoed within her, and the air suddenly seemed too thick to inhale. Biting her bottom lip, she reached a white hand forward and curled her fingers about the unevenly soft textile of royal purple.

Fingers brushed against the tops of her own as she took the towel, before closing on both hand and cloth, and drawing her gently forwards. The warmth of his skin upon hers rallied her attention efficiently enough, chasing way the jealous thoughts completely. "Christine," he crooned, "please... I have thought only of you, these past years. Every waking moment, every breath.. has been dedicated only to memories of you.. my Angel..." His hand tugged her ever closer, as his voice continued in that lovely sing-song tone.

Eyes lowered to the hand beneath his own, however—her left, coincidentally—and focused, rather firmly, on the third finger. Instead of a deterrent, however, it seemed to this time represent only an inconvenience. "Christine," he began slowly, "would you be willing to.. do me a favor?" His innocent question prodded at her distraught heart, and she merely offered a nod of her head. Like fruit ripening with the heat of summer, her cheeks had grown quite pink upon his gentle brush of fingertips. The feather-soft touch had tickled color back into her face and placed a stick before her heart, inviting it to stumble blatantly in its pace.

Erik's fingers slid beneath her own, lifting her hand from the towel; the purple mass was cast aside carelessly. One hand held her own in its grasp, while the other began to trace its fingers across the top of her hand with reverent grace. Each touch sent a shivering wave of vulnerability over her delicate frame, and coaxed forth a timid, shocked breath. The caressing fingers found their way to her ring finger, and with an almost magically easy stroke, he slid the ring up and off of her finger. He hesitated a moment, before slowly turning her hand palm-up, and setting the ring in the center of her palm. Coaxing fingers now curled her own over, until they covered that glorious jewel.

"Keep it hidden?" Eyes raised to meet hers, and the desperation there was nothing short of genuine. "I cannot bear to.. to..." His head shook, once, upon recognizing the futility of attempting elegant words. "Please," he finished. "Keep that thing out of my sight."

"My ring..? Oh.. but—" Raoul! "—but... Of course, Erik." His eyes tore away from her own and she felt a surge of relief, relief which mingled dangerously with ever-growing guilt... Raoul...

Panic in his voice struck a high note, as he suddenly whipped around in a frenzy. "Christine, where are my clothes?" he cried. "What did you do with them?" A finger rose to point at the scraps, at the pitiful mound of faded elegance. "There—on the floor, near the tub!"

His head spun to follow the indication of her hand, and upon spotting the items which he so desperately sought, he lurched himself forwards in one silky motion and quite nearly pounced upon the rags. Trembling fingers began searching desperately through each pocket; Christine watched as various ornaments only suited to a man began to scuttle across the floor. Coins, bits of thread, a handkerchief, another handkerchief. "Erik, what—" A coil of twine, just barely recognizable, skidded across the floor as it, too, was discarded. Christine took an instinctive step in the opposite direction, her backside pressing firmly against the sink stand lurking behind her.

A cry of delight echoed from the man, as he stood clutching a single perfect circlet of gold in his fingertips. The lariat was forgotten. Like a miniature sun rising in the feign sky, the golden band glowed strongly, accented by the light glaring through the window in a misty beam. The polished, perfect gold had never faded, even after the passing of years! Shocked, her eyes widened in genuine disbelief as the little halo was presented to her, accompanied by his childlike, elated smile, which she so unknowingly returned.

"Erik...! You still.. the ring!" Idly, she reached back with the hand that enveloped the sacred gemstone of binding, and released it. The noise of it tinkling into the sink was a dismal, soft raucous unheard. That hand then routed forward and sought its partner, massaging the skin which was so previous suffocated by the ring she had just carelessly discarded. This was delightful—he had not lost it, as she had convinced herself he had!

He nodded eagerly, as his feet were regained, and the ring extended towards her. "Do you see?" he asked, voice tense with restrained pride. "I have polished it nearly every day, kept it perfect—perfect! I..." He hesitated, as if reconsidering previous intentions; instead, silence reigned for a moment, and he merely pressed a fingertip into the circle of the ring. It did not even pass the first knuckle, merely rolled back and forth across that singular nail. "I... Well, I don't suppose you would like to have it back, would you?"

Idly, she reached back with the hand that enveloped the sacred gemstone of binding, and released it. The noise of it tinkling into the sink was a dismal, soft raucous unheard. That hand then routed forward and sought its partner, massaging the skin which was so previous suffocated by the ring she had just carelessly discarded. This was delightful—he had not lost it, as she had convinced herself he had!

"Have it back?" she asked, frowning, worry glazing her eyes. "Whatever do you mean? Erik, it is yours.."

The previously-elated countenance fell, from soaring heights to withering lows. "Oh." It was not really an appropriate reply, but seemed to be all his tongue could form. Eyes fell to the tiles beneath their feet; the ring tumbled from his fingertip, into the pinched grasp of other digits, which then, with a swift and almost invisible motion, placed that golden circlet within his right pocket. "No, no, I suppose you would not care to have it—though, I certainly cannot, in good conscience, agree to your suggestion of its ownership. After all, what need have I, for this ring? It was purchased and sized for your own hand... It is in my possession for the sole motivation that, after all, its true owner has no want for it." An almost accusatory glance was flicked in her direction, but immediately retreated from her again, before any real chance was given to read the incentive behind it. "I suppose one could say that I have rescued it, really; if I had not taken it into my care, there is no telling what sort of despicable circumstances it would have found itself in."

"Despicable!" Christine sputtered, her mouth ajar with shock; the insult slashed at her and left deep wounds, the accusing glance much like salt sprinkled upon it. "Despicable! No.. Erik! I would never let anything happen to it—you know this... You'd nothing to rescue it from! I would never..." She would never allow it to wander from her sight, never allow it to tumble to the floor and rest amongst the dust beneath a chair... Never allow it to slide down the porcelain side of a sink and teeter upon the edge of the gaping drain. She'd hold it closer than her husband's hand. Words dissolved into silence as she looked at him, tilting her head slightly to the side, eyes pleading and dismal.

"Erik.." She stepped towards him, over the writhing twine. "I would like it." An ivory palm was held out towards him, the red brand of the ring she previously clutched serving as a horrible pink contrast to her fair flesh.

Slowly, he withdrew the ring again, and held his hand out over her own. "If you are sure..." he said slowly, almost as if doubting the truth behind her words. "If you... Well..." His bare hand cupped hers, and turned it over, while the ring-bearing hand moved to carefully slide the ring onto her finger. A sigh escaped her lips—a sigh of happiness, of relief.Those hands held hers for a moment, as he admired the ring on that finger with a gentle smile. Christine watched numbly as his head bent, and her hand was lifted; lips and knuckles met midway, with the air of a man touching lips to the living hand of the Virgin Mary.

As the kiss was pressed there, her hand tightened on his own. Moving toward him by little, her eyes searched his reverent being. Two words were whispered: "I'm sure..."


End file.
